Raison d'Etre
by Bigsciencybrain
Summary: It may not be riding off into the sunset but there is some happy and some ever after. UNDER CONSTRUCTION.
1. Philosopher

**Title:** Raison d'Etre  
**Author:** Aeneas  
**Rating:** T to M (PG-13 to R)  
**Summary:** What I deserve doesn't wait for me in Sunnydale. I haven't found it yet but I will. When I do, there will be something of mine, of me, left behind when I start killing daisies. Post-_Grave_, crossover with _Angel: The Series_.  
**Disclaimer:** All things belong to Joss and Mutant Enemy, except New Orleans and everything in it, for obvious reasons. It's their sandbox, I just play there.

**Part One – Finding Faith**

**Philosopher**

Every story begins with a first word. Every journey with a first step. This is my story. Like most of the classics, it starts with a girl.

Picture this, in grand Technicolor imagination where pigs fly home to roost and every vampire meets a sharp stake and has a dusty ending. You'll find me sitting in your favorite smoky pub, the one where old school blues bands still bring rhythm and soul to barstool philosophers staring into their drinks. Cigarettes flare and wink like cancer causing stars shining in the heavens. Sometimes you cough. Sometimes you breath the tar and rat poison in so deep that it fills you and leaves that tingly feeling that could be nerve endings getting fried and brain cells screaming for help.

Cut through the atmosphere with the handy machete I'm sure everyone carries these days and head down the beaten path. I'll be on the last barstool to your right, one hand wrapped around a tall glass of Blue Moon and the other drawing pictures in the puddle left by the condensation. Nothing to look at, just five feet ten inches of skin and blood like every other human on this planet.

If I were human.

Of course, if I were human, I wouldn't be lost in the haze of smoke and cursing American beer. I'd be out with the wife and kiddies and painting my own white picket fence. The American Dream, that's what it's all about. After landing on these shores you can hardly escape from the specter of success and a healthy work ethic. Damn Americans think that they can do anything they want if they're willing to put in the time and elbow grease. Rockets, men on the moon, now they want a ruddy space station spinning around the earth where they can experiment with God knows what. Soon enough you catch yourself thinking that you can do the impossible too. Beat unbeatable odds, dream the impossible dream and all that rot.

I'm man enough to admit it. I let my guard down and the old broad slipped in with her promises of making myself a better man. Of being my own man. Who am I kidding? I'm not even a man. I just sit here on this barstool at the Blue Cats and stare into a pint, playing at being a man. Pretending to be one of them. Pretending that I can't hear their hearts beating in their chests or smell the kalidescope of emotions that humans broadcast for every undead soul out there. Depression has a tang like a fresh orange and remorse is bitter and brings images of the alleyways of Hell's Kitchen. Haven't been there since the glory days of Owney Madden and Mad Dog Coll. I hear they call it Clinton now that it's cleaned up a bit. I wonder if the streets still remember the blood and violence of decades past. They used to reek with it, pulsing with life and aggression. I used to think that some things never changed. Now I know better.

I've seen the world. I've watched it change. Countries rise, countries fall. Never cared much for politics or the affairs of men. Bloody wankers, all of them. One hundred and thirty years had passed before these eyes and proved the old adage that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Life moved faster now. People huddled in steel boxes as they drove, took the subway, hopped on board a plane. They were still trying to get somewhere, trying to be someone, trying to grab onto that unreachable star that would pull them up above their mundane lives. That never changed. The man next to me, a regular, had the two point five kids and the Betty Crocker wife for a few years before his construction business went belly up and he ended up in anger management and AA. What's the git doing here at the bar? Fell off the damn wagon again. He's crying into his Miller and wondering where his life jumped the tracks.

It's a question I ask myself so often that it's become a mantra. The only difference between me and the whimpering sod on the next stool is that he'll leave a corpse when he dies. I'll end up in someone's vacuum or fertilizing daisies. Is vampire dust good fertilizer? Maybe the dust kills the plants. That would be poetic in a twisted justice sort of way. A plague to the living, a parasite to society, and even after we've been sent to hell or wherever demon souls go, our remains are still wrecking their petty vengeance on the foliage.

I like that. I like the idea of leaving something behind even if it would be a patch of dead and brittle begonias. Otherwise I just vanish into a big pile of dust and there's no proof that I ever walked this earth.

Why do I want proof? I don't have that answer. I've got a whole lot of answers and more than one lifetime of watching and seeing and hating all humanity to figure out the whats and whys. But no one has answers for me. Almost no one. Can't forget Peaches. His broodiness, Soulboy, the Magnificent Poof. A pseudo man of many names also moving through this world as a wolf in sheep's clothing. He knows this road and he's probably the only other one to have ever traveled it. I'll be damned before I ask him. Of course, I'm already damned so it shouldn't matter to me. But it does and in a million and one different ways.

One of which is that we're both trapped in Hellsville-on-Earth because of the same bouncing blond hair and holier than thou attitude. A Slayer. A Vampire Slayer to be precise. She's come down a ways since Angel had her. She's darker, has an edge of something hard and ruthless that he never saw in her round teenage cheeks. She's raw and she burns when she touches you. It's not how it was supposed to be. Dance with the Devil, the Devil doesn't change. He changes you. Didn't work that way. We danced, we fought, we shagged. And I'm the one who changed. She went back to her pretty world of sunlight and puppies and I took a crash course on pain and suffering. It's all relative.

It still left me with nothing. No one will see a patch of wilted flowers and say, that was Spike, Master Vampire and Slayer of Slayers. I'll be in those books the bloody Watchers have and that English bint's thesis. That'll be all that's left of me. No one will care a whit if one more vampire stops biting and killing innocents. Vampires are just animals. Vicious, cruel animals without conscience or care for life. We get put down, rubbed out, hunted, slayed. We are demons. We never change.

So what am I?

A freak. Some sort of cosmic joke or twist of fate. Like the ugly child parents fear or the dog with two heads. I'm a monster's monster. A serial killer in prison. Only this time I built the prison with my own two hands and a sickness I called love because I couldn't explain the pain eating away at me.

I got the bloody soul back. I crawled out of that cave and I went back to Sunnydale. Stark, raving mad and half dead but I was home. Home. Vampires don't have homes, they have lairs and territories. They don't set up house and put doilies on the table. They have nothing but the hunt and the kill. No desires outside of feeding and fucking. It's a pretty simple existence. Only a few of us ever have any grand ideas about destroying the world or other such nonsense.

I've said before that I like this world. I'm not so sure anymore.

What's to like? I sit here in the dark, smoking Winstons next to another of America's failures who fell on his ass when he reached for the goddamned stars. Everything's going to hell and there isn't a place for me in that pretty little hand basket anymore.

Back in Sunnydale I had an epiphany. Crouching in a dark corner, dirt beneath my feet in the school basement and some evil bastard playing mind games with the tattered rags of my sanity, I finally realized that I'd made a mistake. Too late to take the soul back, it was drenched with blood and I was pretty sure that Lurky didn't handle returns. I was a pathetic shmuck according to the greased weasel whispering a hundred voices in my ears. It was right. I'd gone halfway around the globe to be something I couldn't, dreamed that impossible dream and ended up with a nightmare instead. I'd turned into the Poof, crying and sobbing whispered apologies to people long dead and worm food. They didn't care if I was sorry. Their souls were probably up there laughing themselves off of their fluffy white clouds at the spectacle their feared killer had become. Wouldn't matter if I saved all the puppies and the whole bloody world every May for ten more years, they'd still be dead and their blood would still be on my hands.

Once again, that damn little town sitting over the Hellmouth had chalked up another victory over Spike, kicked the pitiful vampire's ass and sent him packing for less toxic pastures. With a two fingered salute I left SunnyHell for the last time and Slayer be damned. She'd fight the big evil just like she always did. If she and her band of Scoobies finally caught the cattle train to the Great Hereafter, so much the better. She'd be back in her precious Heaven, no less sullied for having rolled in the dirt a few times. The epiphany, the strike of lightning that sent me running for the hills and away from the Hellmouth, was that I had a soul. Seems obvious, doesn't it? It wasn't. Not to me. I didn't understand what it really meant. I couldn't see past trying to get to Buffy, telling her that I got the soul for her, that I was want she wanted now, that she could love me now. I was good enough for her now.

I was wrong. It wasn't about being good enough. No one is ever good enough for anyone else. I wasn't good enough for Buffy, never would be as long as she had a pulse and I didn't. She wasn't good enough for me, as long as she drew breath to survive and I didn't. It redefined vicious cycle. I realized that I was. That I existed. I slept, bled, wept, fed. I lived. I had a soul. My eyes were opened and I saw a great big world stretching out before me that had nothing to do with Slayers or vampires. There was an entire existence just past my reach that I had never seen or noticed. All I had been thinking was how to convince Buffy to forgive me. How could I gain her trust? How could I earn her love? Riding away from Sunnydale on the roar of a motorcycle, there was only one question burning in my head. Who am I?

It brought me here. To the streets of New Orleans and a little bar called Blue Cats. No one gave me a second look in the twisted melee of painted faces and frat boy antics that characterized the heart and soul of Louisiana around Mardi Gras. One party bled into the next until there was nothing left but alcohol blood and dancing bodies. I didn't belong here any more than I belonged in Sunnydale but it was a place to start. A place to build a life that would be mine. For over a hundred years, all I was good at was murder and mayhem, fists and fangs. What was I good at now? I asked Lurky for my soul. I asked him to give me what she deserved. Fate must have a sense of humor. I got what she deserved and realized that I didn't know what I deserved. I'm my own man now. My own evil, undead thing as some so aptly describe me. What I deserve doesn't hinge on the whim of a Slayer who has yet to reach a quarter of a century. A child, really. What I deserve doesn't wait for me in Sunnydale. I haven't found it yet but I will. When I do, there will be something of mine, of me, left behind when I start killing daisies.

That's good enough.


	2. Identity

**Identity**

There are five bloody meanings of the word _identity_ in the scrappy edition of Webster's sitting on the bed at my side. Five. Not one of them is helpful. Webster didn't know jack shit about what an identity really is. Neither do I.

It all boils down to one little piece of paper that sits in the palm of your hand. One number that means you exist and can go your way in the world without care or concern that people will suspect you're anything but one of them. Seems strange to put so much value on such a little thing and to have to work so bloody hard to get one. At least this vampire had to work hard; boldly going where no demon had gone before.

I don't feel different. Same rundown studio apartment with water-stained walls and brown shag left over from the heyday of disco fever. Same beat up iron bed frame and box springs that don't spring anymore, covered with a charcoal Army surplus blanket of wool that itches enough to drive a man insane. Table and chair are wooden, scratched, and dented. There's crayon on the underside and sometimes I try to picture the family that owned them before I dug them out of dumpster two blocks down. What I see is a small, cherubic little rug rat holed up under the dining room table pretending he's painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Chubby fingers wrapped around rainbow Crayolas and wide, innocent eyes seeing a work of art in the blur of color and line that's more Jackson Pollack than Michelangelo. Some days I want to crawl under that table and join my imaginary toddler, forgetting everything but sticks of colored wax wrapped in pretty paper. Other days I feel like ripping him out from under the table and sinking my fangs into his soft little neck. You win some, you lose some.

Today's my birthday. How's that? Did I really keep track of one day in one hundred and thirty years of bloodshed and violence? Hell no. I can't even remember what day it was when Dru found me in that alley. Today's the first day of my unlife that I've felt real. There's something of mine. A name, a number. It all means that I'm real.

I tried to do it the old-fashioned way with red tape and stuffy clerks behind desks of paper and freshly sharpened pencils made obsolete by the fancy computers and fax machines. There were forms I couldn't fill out and there were more pieces of paper that I couldn't get until I had other forms that I couldn't fill out without the pieces of paper I was trying to get. I thought my head would explode after a few days of that merry-go-round and I'm still convinced that half those blank stares came from demons. Anything that sadistic and twisted had to come from something evil. Eventually I got frustrated. I got bored. And I was beginning to think I was completely cracked to even attempt fighting against American bureaucracy.

I went back to what I was good at. Fists and fangs proved to be effective motivational tools for certain members of the city's seedier community. Got me enough of the ruddy paperwork to go back to the old lady with the owlish eyes and gray cardigan that smelled of mothballs and chamomile. Picked up my piece of paper a few weeks later and legally joined the land of the living. Today's the day. My birthday. Maybe I should get a cake. Layer it up with icing, drizzle some blood on the top like all those fancy cakes on TV, and celebrate proper.

All for one piece of paper.

There will be more. More hoops to jump, more tape to cut, more lines to stand in and wonder if anyone there has the answers I'm looking for. I don't think they do. I think they're all just as lost as I am, searching for something they can't understand or identify. Glazed eyes stare into worlds beyond my sight; they're all trapped in their pretty little heads with their own thoughts. I'd never realized how separate, how disconnected, how alone humans are. As a demon, you're part of a larger evil. You belong to the night and to violence; you're connected. Humans have nothing to link them together or to something bigger. It's not for lack of trying. There are enough religions represented in New Orleans alone to fill half a phone book; a testament of the inner drive to feel like they're part of something, that they belong. But they're still lost and they're still alone.

Anyone who says change is hard hasn't changed. Change is easy. You don't even notice it until it's too late. Wake up one morning and there's a stranger staring out of the mirror. If you're one of the lucky blokes that have a reflection, that is. It's not changing that's hard on the soul.

I sigh as I put the all-important piece of paper back into a leather wallet. My first wallet. Hell of a lot of firsts around here lately. The wallet goes into the back pocket of black leather pants. It still rattles me sometimes, feel like I'm bloody Angelus in these things. Boots are the same old friends of scuffed black leather, they've seen me through more than any two shoes should witness. I'm wearing a white button up silk shirt that makes me feel vaguely queasy. White is for brides and angels, not vampires in a dubious state of morality regardless of their souled status. More black leather for a jacket. Not my duster, left that in good ol' Sunnyhell a year ago. Probably taking up space in a California landfill. Unless she burned it. I'm half hoping she did.

The window is my exit since I hate clomping down the hallways and stairs in my motorcycle boots that sound like cannons on the wood floors when people are trying to get to sleep. One of these days I'll do it just to prove I don't give a damn about the lot of them and this soul isn't turning me into a sodding poofter. Until then, the rusty, iron fire escape suits my purposes just fine as I make my way down to the alley five stories down. It clanks and rattles a little when I skip the last set of stairs, hopping over the railing and landing next to a dirty puddle gleaming with a layer of oil. The imaginary toddler would probably jump and splash and ruin the adorable little outfit his mum put him in that morning. For a moment I'm tempted.

Demons don't splash in puddles.

I head out into the night, following my nose. New Orleans has a smell, has a presence, maybe the city itself has its own soul. I'm still a little fuzzy on how everything works with souls and such. But if cities can have souls then New Orleans must have one. There's a festival coming and it'll get crazy for a few days. Excitement is already tainting the air with the anticipation of drunken reveling and another opportunity to leave the feeling of loneliness locked in a closet with the rest of the skeletons.

It's a bit of a walk to my place of gainful employment. That's a laugh. A vampire working for a living is generally considered a joke; although the few people who recognize me for what I am don't seem to find it humorous. I got the job through one of the girls at Blue Cats. Her uncle was looking for someone who knew how to mix a few drinks and how to handle himself if things got a little rough. He didn't even notice that I didn't have a reflection until halfway through the interview and I think he was too frightened to not give me the job after that. He's taken to wearing a cross around his neck on the nights I work.

Even without the festival, Bourbon Street is a weaving mass of humanity at night. Voices speaking every language and accent imaginable can be heard along the cobbled streets of the French Quarter, drinks in one hand and eye candy in the other. It's a place to meet and greet and maybe get lucky. 735 Bourbon is my stop. I sneak in through the back to avoid the crowd on the sidewalk outside the doors and hang my jacket in the room off from the supply pantry. Rolling my sleeves up to my elbows, I make my way out to the bar to take over for Jesse. I don't envy him the first half of the evening. Happy hour starts at four in the afternoon and I've heard tales.

"Hey, Spike." Jesse nods and tosses his towel into the bucket under the bar. "Pretty crazy tonight. Good luck." He pats me on the back as he passes. He doesn't know what I am because he still doesn't believe he can't see me in the mirror. It's just a trick of the light.

Things get blurry after that. Some dame with too much eye make-up wants an Energizer. Another wants a shot of this, a shot of that, a double. Shake, shake, add ice, and pour. It's repetitive now. Follow the recipe, give the nice gentleman his drink and watch him toddle back out to the dance floor. The music is loud and heavy with bass beats that keep a steady gallop through the night. It's not my type of music but I'm not sure that I have a type any more. It's electronic, driven by synthesizers and computers. I've heard it called half a dozen names. Doesn't really matter to me. I just like the noise.

I get a few curious glances every now and then. I smile and ask if I can help them. Mostly they're already half past drunk and just order another drink. It's amazing how unobservant people can be when they put their mind to it.

"Spike." Charlie smiles uneasily as he joins me behind the bar, helping out with the crush of people lined up at the perimeter. "Need a hand?"

"Won't say no." I keep my eyes on the bottles in my hands. Creme de Menthe. Vodka. Keep track of the shots. You have to have the perfect proportions for these drinks to come out right. Soon enough the demand slows to a few wanderers here and there in search of something to help them face the Karaoke machine on the second floor. Charlie stays, wiping the top of the bar thoughtfully, as if trying to polish it to the luster of the mirror behind us.

"I won't show up in that either," I comment, taking my towel to the other end of the bar and wiping up spilled alcohol.

He looks at me with surprise for a moment and then guilt takes over. "How did you know?"

I raise one eyebrow and point to the cross around his neck. "What else do you ward off with those things?"

"Do they work?"

I take the cross in one hand, wrapping my fingers tightly around it and listening to the sizzle of my own skin as it burns. After a few seconds I release the icon and show him the burn marks on my hand. "It'll be gone by tomorrow." I shrug and turn back to the bar. Someone wants a Long Island Iced Tea.

There isn't any conversation for a while. I'm mixing drinks and he's replacing bottles. I'm still not sure what he's hanging around for, especially now that I've admitted what I am.

"Why are you here?" I had almost forgotten he was still there; his dark eyes are burning holes into the bar because he's unable to look me in the eye.

"Trying to build a life, s'all." I shrug again, keeping my eyes on the crowd in front of us.

"Got tired of killing people?"

That deserved one long look and a smirk. "You could say that." I laugh a little and pull out a glass, mixing the strange blend of fruit juices and liquor that I know he likes. Sliding it down the bar, I flash a smile and glance around for listening ears. "Used to be as bad as they come. Evil. Killer. Whole nine yards."

"What happened?"

"Met a girl." I pause for a second, thinking back. "Got my soul back. End of my being a bad-ass vampire." There. I had said it. Vampire. I was a vampire. There was no going back now.

"Your soul? How does that make a difference?"

Another long look. People are pretty clueless actually. Take their souls for granted, they do. "Vampires aren't human. They're demons. No guilt, no conscience. Hell, they enjoy killing. Put a human soul back and you've got years of murder and death to feel bad about. And that's if you were a boring vampire who didn't get into rape or torture." I almost wince. Almost. I had never been a boring vampire.

"How long?"

"Have I been a vampire?" I shrug. "'Bout a hundred and thirty years now. Had the soul a year in May."

"And the girl?"

"Long gone, mate. Long gone." I think he senses that there's more to the story than that but he doesn't press the issue, just watches me and sips his drink slowly.

"Must have been some girl."

"She was. Is." Another shrug, I do that a lot. It's a statement of knowing I don't have the answers. A gesture that seems to vent the frustration I have in feeling so lost and alone here in a crowd of people who would run screaming if they saw my other face.

"What are you going to do now?"

"What everyone else in this world does. Try to get by." I've already fed but the pounding of the blood around me is intoxicating and gets the bloodlust going in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it's the music. Some nights it seems to bring out the primal instincts. Fight, kill, feed. I haven't had a good spot of violence since I left the caves in Africa, but I shake off the building desire to pummel something. "What do normal people do anyway?"

Charlie returns his own shrug. "I've got a nephew in college. Landscape architect. Wants to design golf courses. You know Leila. She's taking a few courses at the university. You could do that."

"College?" That's a bizarre suggestion; a century old vampire going back to school. I'd laugh at the ridiculousness of it but he has a point. What am I supposed to do? I'm going to live forever and I sure as hell don't want to be mixing drinks the whole time. It's still crazy. "Daytime isn't too good for my complexion."

"I'm sure you could find a way. If you wanted to." He looks back down at his drink. "They have night classes."

"Uh huh." He's trying to be helpful and I'm frowning because I'm not sure why. For a human who knows he's standing next to an evil creature of the night, he seems awfully concerned about my welfare.

"Charlie?"

"Yeah?"

"There aren't any other vampires like me." I leave Angel out because that's too complex and I don't think it changes my advice anyway. "You see one, you run like hell. They don't care who you are or what kind of person you are. You're food to them. Happy meals on legs. That's all."

He can tell I'm serious and he pales a little, trying to smile. "I got it."

"Good." Back to the bar, someone wants another drink. It makes me nervous to think that there are vampires out on the streets stalking innocent men like Charlie. With the festival coming, evil would crawl out of the woodwork to pick off the less noticeable members of the crowds. The people no one ever notices until their body turns up in the county morgue looking like they got stuck with a barbeque fork. Thinking about it makes me shudder even though part of me wonders if it's because I'd like to be the one culling the herd.

"You could try it though. Take a few classes. See if it works."

"Are you going to keep yapping at me until I say yes?"

"Probably. It was Leila's idea." He cleans his glass and starts working on a stinger. "She thinks you're a good looking guy."

That comment screws up my concentration and I end up with a slurry of liquid just short of the drink I was aiming for. Shooting a dark look down the bar, I start over again. "So this is the stay the hell away from my niece speech."

"Not really. I don't want to see bite marks on her any time soon but I don't think you'd hurt her." He sounds sincere.

"Not interested, mate. Sorry. She's a doll, really." I want to explain to him that I can't let anyone into my life. I don't have a life. I have nothing to give, nothing to show for all the years I've lived. "I just can't." I finish lamely, keeping my eyes anywhere but at his questioning face.

"I could tell her you're gay. She thinks you are anyway." My eyes must have bugged out because he laughed. "Come on. There isn't a woman in this joint who wouldn't pay for a tumble in the back room if you had the appetite for it. Good number of the men would probably jump at the chance too. What's Leila supposed to think if she knows you never take any of the dames up on it?"

"I don't take the men up on it either." I respond sourly, strangely offended that his niece thinks I swing that way.

"So you've got issues." He's shaking ice in one of the steel tumblers and watching me carefully. "You're uncomfortable with women because your heart got broken into little pieces. Maybe it's time to get back in the game."

Raising one eyebrow, I'm trying not to smile cynically at the friendly advice. "And the creature of the night issues? Crosses, holy water. How do I explain that to the next bird I want to shack up with? Sorry pet, I tend to go up in flames when I see Mr. Sunshine. And I can snap your neck in two or drain you dry before you can scream." I'm shaking my head now, feeling the hopelessness of the situation. Humans and vampires are not meant to fall in love.

"I'm not talking about till death do you part. Just a little roll in the hay. I'm talking about having fun."

"Fun." It's hard not to be bitter. Fun was drinking the blood of a Slayer. Fun was snapping her neck in a New York subway. It was the hundred years with Dru before Sunnydale snapped its jaws and castrated me. Goddamned Soldier boys and their bloody chips. Still had to get the bloody thing out one of these days.

That was the moment that I realized the chip had to go. That even with the soul, I wouldn't be free until all of my decisions were my own. The leash had to go.

"Spike? You okay, man?"

"Yeah." I was far away, lost in thought. I was real. Had a name and a social security number to prove it.

Now I needed to be free.


	3. Bad Day

**Bad Day**

Pouring rain brought the city to a crawl and sent all the rats scurrying for higher ground. I stared out my window, trapped inside those four walls. Never before had I felt as trapped; not even in the belly of the Initiative surrounded by walls of transparent lightning and terrified demons waiting for involuntary lobotomies. The city was closing in on me. It knew what I was, an abomination, and I could feel its eyes staring at me every time I crawled out of my woolen cocoon on the bed.

Despair was seeping through the cracks, slithering across the floor and biting its way up my tingling legs. Wrapping its tentacles around me, determined to drag me into Hell kicking and screaming. My soul was in rebellion. Why had I thought I could be something? Why had I wanted a life? I didn't deserve a life. I didn't deserve to walk the earth among the creatures of nature or god or cosmic chance. Everything around me was pure and bright, bathed with dirty diamond rain. My hands tightened on the windowsill, cracking the wood and shooting splinters into my palms. The physical pain was soothing in a world of mental anguish. There was nothing I could take; no pill, no drug, no amount of alcohol would dull the cacophony of voices in my head.

Hands clawed and tore at my sanity. Dying voices screamed and begged in words long forgotten but never lost. Dru was dancing with the stars. If I was going mad, would they talk to me as well? How much of her sight had been insanity and how much had been her gift? Where did her madness end and her demon begin? Did becoming a vampire make her worse or had Angelus done all the damage there was to do in that pretty head of hers? I hated her. Hated with such passion and vengeance that it surprised me. I hated her for finding me in that alleyway decades past. I hated Angel for siring her. I hated Darla for choosing Angel. The hate kept going on up the line, past names and faces I couldn't even begin to know. All the way back to the first vampire who had ever walked this earth as a monster, hiding from the light of day and all that was blessed.

My wealth is in my head, my heart. That's what Dru had told me. My strengths were my passion, my fire. I had embraced all that had come my way. I had never backed down from a fight in a hundred years. Not until Sunnydale. Not until my identity, my very reason for being, had been stripped from me with the callousness of the self-righteous. I was nothing more than a lab rat. No feelings, no emotions. I was a demon. Demons can't love. Had I ever loved? Those memories only fueled my anger, beating back the clinging tendrils of despair with primal rage.

I had to get out of the cage. Out the window, down the unsteady steps. Feet hitting the pavement, spraying water over my boots and calves. I kept moving, running as fast and hard as I could. Dark clouds rolled over each other, twisting and writhing as they spit down rain furiously. I didn't care that they were the only thing between me and a sun who hated me and all my kind. All that mattered was the city racing by me. The speed. I had to keep running.

Desperately I wished for a working heart and blood flowing through my veins, longing to feel it pounding inside my chest, blood burning through my limbs as I pushed myself further and faster. I needed the pain of air searing my lungs and human muscles trembling with exertion. Slipping on slick asphalt, I fell, rolled, and climbed to my feet to keep running. A gash on my thigh was bleeding and the heels of my palms had been scraped raw from crashing to the ground.

I was running from my demons. I was running from my past. I was running from everything I had ever been and everything I would never be. I would never be a lover, husband, father, grandfather. It was all gone, beyond my reach. The price of strength and immortality. There would never be anything to tie me to this world. I would never belong. I would never be forgiven. I could never atone.

South to Canal Street. I dodged startled and angry motorists as I kept going, still hoping that I could somehow leave everything behind me if I just ran fast enough. Northwest. Into the driving rain that had already soaked my clothes and body completely. Grass felt like ice beneath my feet when I vaulted a concrete wall, scrabbling to the top and falling to the damp, spongy ground on the other side. Weather stained walls that had once gleamed with white stone were now covered with mineral deposits and graffiti. The earth had begun its reclamation of the old cemetery, moving in an army of plants, lichens, and other life forms capable of dragging the monuments to the dead back into the dirt they had come from.

I was shivering without being cold. One hand stretched out to trail along the dripping stone as I wandered through the cemetery. Night was coming. The sky overhead still thundered down sheets of rain. It poured down my face in rivers, washing away the tears burning my eyes. Death was on my heels. It was all around me. Everywhere I looked there was death. In my teeth, in my throat. My head and my heart were filled with death. Was that what Dru had meant? That my value came because I was somehow destined to be a killer. A vicious creature who raped, maimed, murdered his way across continents with a smirk and a song in his heart. Was that all I was meant to be?

The soul screamed out in defiance. Against fate, against what or who was counting the threads, cutting the strings. The man behind the curtain. I wanted a second chance. I needed a second chance.

I stumbled, leaning against a small iron fence surrounding a grave. It swayed against my weight, fighting to keep its grip on the soft soil. I was on my knees, face turned toward the clouds with my eyes closed. Letting the tears wash away. There was nothing left for me. No dreams. No love. No hope of something better than what I was. Forever damned.

"Please." I choked against the rain, feeling it slip past my mouth and trickle down my throat. "Please. Forgive me." I was screaming into the storm, wind whipping my words away into the darkening night. Begging the souls around me, the souls I left behind when I ripped them from their bodies. Hundreds. Thousands of souls surrounding me, staring down with accusing eyes at their murderer. Behind them, their families and those they left behind. Children I had orphaned. Women I had widowed. Men who had lost wives, mothers, daughters to my fists, my fangs.

"Forgive me." There was nothing left in me but a whimper as I collapsed onto the ground, trembling and squeezing my eyes shut tight against the battalion of victims come to seek their revenge. Every dead cell, every drop of stagnant blood in my body ached with the weight of my guilt and my shame. I was dead. I have never felt more dead that I did lying there on the rain soaked grass surrounded by tombs. There was life all around me, twisting away as it felt the darkness in me. I was made, shaped, sculpted out of death itself. My hands, my face, every part of me was just a piece of pain and hell molded into a facade of humanity. Reduced to senseless muttering of the same two words over and over again, I stayed there, unable to move long after the rain had continued its journey down the coast.

I could smell the night around me. Hear the traffic beyond the walls and the scurrying of nocturnal creatures. Bats darted noiselessly through the humid air, catching the insects that sustained them. I should feel at home with them but I don't. I'm not a creature of the night anymore. I'm nothing. Not a monster, not a man. Nothing.

It was not lost to me that I was lying in one of the many cemeteries in New Orleans crying over my crimes as a vampire. Some bird had written a slough of books about vampires in this very city. I hadn't read them but I had heard that one of her fictional vampires regretted taking lives. He must have had a soul. I knew the books were rubbish. Not a lick of truth in the pages. Their only use was to keep the gullible population lax and convinced that vampires were secretly a noble race worthy of respect. I had a few memories of a group of kids playing at being vampires years ago in Sunnydale. Damn writers giving them rotten ideas.

Yet here I was. Lying in a puddle of grass and mud, sobbing like a child because of the blood I had shed. I was fulfilling the fantasy. It was sickening enough to get me back to my knees, hands resting once more against the iron fence. I had no more tears to cry and no more heart to break.

"H-hello?" The soft female voice catches me by surprise and I see a girl standing a few feet away, flashlight in hand and dressed in cute little red galoshes with a matching hat. Looks like a bloody postcard standing there in the moonlight.

"Go away." I pull myself to my feet and take in my surroundings. The night is getting more Anne Rice by the minute. Bloody Hell.

"Are y-you al-alright?" Her stammer reminds me of Tara and I soften for a moment. She's not coming any closer and I can't see any stakes. Never can be too careful with the cute little girls. The dumb blonde in the alley might turn out be the goddamn Slayer and there goes the landscaping.

"You shouldn't be out here alone." I try to give her a stern look. Well, I was aiming for intimidating but I don't have the stomach for it.

"Y-you were c-crying."

"Yeah." I'm watching her more warily now. How long had she been standing there? Droplets of water were dripping from the shiny red hat on her head and meant that she'd been out in the rain. It had stopped almost an hour ago. "What of it?"

"Y-you're a v-vampire." She didn't sound surprised and I was officially spooked by the little girl in the red galoshes. When did little girls dressed like the Paddington bear ever turn out not evil anyway? It had to be one of those unwritten laws. Right up there with vampires who fall in love with Slayers will inevitably get their fool hearts broken, soul or no.

"Who are you?" I stalk toward her, trying once more at the intimidation factor. She doesn't budge, doesn't even blink a pretty little eyelash. "What's going on?" That tremor in my voice is anger not unease.

"I c-can h-help you."

"Lovely. How's that?"

"The ch-chip."

That deserves a very loud snort and a laugh. "Right. Let me guess. You're not really a little girl at all. Probably some all powerful witch or demon who just plays dress up with oversized Barbie clothes. And you've come to offer me a chipectomy in return for a small favor that I won't want to do. Blood of a virgin or something else out of the stone age. Did I miss anything?" There was still no change in her inscrutable pre-teen face.

Finally she smiled. "No. That is concise." No more stammering. Guess the witch was done playing the lost lamb.

"Get on with it, then. Give me the vision quest speech or your demands or what have you." I'm paying more attention to wringing the water out of my T-shirt and jeans than the illusion in front of me.

"One condition."

"Just one? Why not a few? You know I'm good for it or you wouldn't have come. Good ol' Lurky had a whole line up."

"One death."

That stopped me for a bit and I noticed that the girl's eyes were dark in the night. Two empty holes would have had more color to them. Definitely evil. "Demon?"

"Human."

"Knew I wouldn't like it." I wince, once again battling the voices in my head. "What's the poor sod done?"

"Betrayed us."

"Us? More than one of you in there?" That would make anyone nervous. Always hated talking to crazies. Never know what they're gonna do. "I'm not saying I'll do it. Just tell me 'bout it and let me make up my mind."

"You must decide now."

That's never good. Commitment before details ruins more lives regardless of species than anything else I can think of there in the cemetery. Again, I wonder what kind of creature sought me out in the middle of the night. More strange since I had just started looking into ways to get the damn thing out of my head. Word travels fast in the underground. If I said yes, the brat would ask me to eat some old lady like Mother Teresa or another wonderful person destined for sainthood. If I said no, I might never get the chunk of silicon out of my brain and I'd never be free to live my own life. Would I ever be free?

She was still staring at me with those empty eyes and I decided to save the existentialism for when I was back in my quiet, one room flat with a glass of blood liberally mixed with vodka.

"Fine." I try to sound casual and it comes out more like a dying frog. "I'll do the job. Take the bleedin' thing out."

"Very well. You must fulfill your end of the bargain. If you do not you will suffer eternal torment."

"That's original. Why not boils and sores?" More bravado. What is it with these evil types and their eternal torment gig? As if my demon cares a whit for torture. Hell, the combination of Dru and a branding iron ought to erase that misconception.

Halfway through my blast from the past the girl reached out and the chip fired. Maybe it was one last jolt for old times sake. Maybe it was afraid of the evil behind that sweet Madeleine face. Whatever the reason, I was back on the ground in a puddle of water and grass, screaming and clutching at my head. Just when I thought it would never end, the pain disappeared and I could feel it. I could feel the spot where the chip had been. I could tell it was gone. Gone. I almost laughed. I was free.

There wasn't a smile on the girl's face when I pushed up off of the ground, feeling better than I had in weeks. A few bar fights with my name on them and I'd be right as rain. I sobered for a moment when I realized that I had just agreed to kill again. It had to be worth it. What was one more face in the sea of people chanting for my head?

"Who do I kill?" I didn't feel like chatting with a demonic entity in a dark graveyard in New Orleans. There were stranger things than vampires in this city.

"The Slayer."

Damn. Always the bloody catch. Why didn't I ever read the fine print? Why the bloody hell did I always fall for these too good to be true offers? My mouth was still flopping open like a washed up trout. "What did Buffy do?"

"Not Buffy. The Slayer." The girl repeated, looking at me with a strangely annoyed expression.

"Faith." I whispered, remembering the rogue Slayer hell-bent on ruining Buffy's life a few years back. It wasn't good but it was better than Buffy. Although the blond would most definitely run me through with the nearest pointy wooden thing if I did it. Not if. I had no choice now. The Slayer of Slayers would be adding another notch to his tally.

"Kill her." The little girl began to fade away, only her bottomless eyes remaining like a twisted tribute to the Cheshire Cat.

I sighed and headed out of the cemetery. Last I had heard, the bird was in jail and would be for a few more years. The evil little monster hadn't said when I had to kill her. Just that I had to. It could wait. I was sure that I'd be blessed with another visit if I waited too long.

Despite the guilt doing a pre-homicidal workout in my soul, I left the graveyard with a lighter heart and a lighter head. All in all, things were looking up for me. I was a free man. The price of my freedom was the life of some crazy bitch who'd whacked a few people in her day. Maybe if I thought about it long enough I'd be able to twist it into some sort of postponed justice. Maybe not. Either way didn't really matter to me. I'd burn that bridge when I came to it.


	4. Let The Games Begin

**Let The Games Begin**

When you're human, when you walk this earth and go about the little details of life, those details become enormous. They swallow you up and living becomes a pattern of crisis and responsibility, a flurry of do-nows and what-ifs. The devil is in the details. Maybe the devil is the details.

Each day revolves around getting something to eat, going to work, walking the dog. Building routines that become so ingrained that you stop thinking about them. Patterns around which we structure our lives. If you asked a complete stranger what their day was about, they would tell you about work and walking the dog. It's easy to get lost in the endless lists of To Do and To Be, easy to forget the aching confusion underneath the surface. You forget to ask the big questions because they fade away against the power of a good routine.

Even demons forget.

There's blood to be found. Violence to follow like a blood hound after a game bird. There's work and one more attempt to blend into the world of humans, to become one of them as much as possible.

I know I'm still dead. That my heart doesn't beat and it never will. I keep trying to feel alive, to imitate the life around me, because there is nothing left for me to do. I work, I drink blood out of discretely covered flasks so as not to alarm the sheltered, misguided sheep around me. Took Charlie's advice and picked up a few classes at the university. It feels good to have a pen in my hand again. Even if I know I'm still just pretending to be one of them.

College is unique. Maybe I see it differently through my old eyes and tired soul. Surrounded by students who brim with life and enthusiasm while they try to maintain the balancing act of discovering who they are and stamping out their individuality at the same time. Torn between becoming the mindless automatons of the system or crashing and burning in a brilliant rebellion of Jack Kerouac proportions. They're all searching for the answers to the big questions without realizing that the jaws of routine and daily life are closing in around them. Soon, all they'll see is the routine, the details. A cubicle, a car, a dog. In some ways they are more like me than any other group of human beings on this planet. In others, we are so different that I find myself an alien being, an island of silence amidst the sea of questioning noise. I jump through the hoops because there's nothing better to do. I follow the yellow brick road to the Emerald City because there is no other path to tread.

It was a Friday. I felt like a nancy-boy reviewing an old assignment for Compositional English. Living among humans required a certain amount of pride swallowing and grimacing with embarrassment. Classmates thought I was shy. I felt like ripping their heads off more often than not. Insipid lot of wankers. I still wasn't sure which voice in my head was the demon and which was the soul.

I was stalling and I knew it. One more class; one more semester. I didn't frequent the demon haunts but I heard something big went down in Sunnydale. Good triumphed. I wondered how. I wondered if the Scoobies had made it. I wondered if Dawn would ever be joining the ranks of those pursuing higher education. Faith was still in jail. Eventually my thoughts always turned back to Faith and I would admit that I was stalling. I didn't want to kill her. I didn't want another Slayer to my name.

There was a good deal of suspicion in my mind as well. Who had the strange girl been? How had the monster known I wanted the chip removed? The few stones I had overturned afterward didn't know anything about Big Bads masquerading as little girls. It was a mystery. I had the distinct feeling that I was being played. My strings had been jerked and like the puppet that I was, I had danced for the devil.

So I stalled. I kept tabs on Faith in jail, waiting for her parole hearings to come and go. She'd be out one day; even murderers got out of their cages. It wasn't like I could get to her in prison anyway. Had to bide my time. I'm sure the big evil of New Orleans understood that.

Three years later, another piece of paper came in the mail with the name William Davis printed above the declaration that I had earned and paid for a Bachelor of the Arts degree at the University of New Orleans. I had thought about choosing a more English surname before I realized that I wasn't English anymore. I hadn't been back to London in decades and hadn't thought of England as my home in longer than that. A nondescript name for a vampire trying to blend in with humanity.

The regulars were used to me. They had figured out eventually what I was and more often than not I had to field odd questions and jokes about bats. Damn Anne Rice. One chit had even asked me to autograph her copy of _Interview With a Vampire_. Makes me want to bite something just thinking about it. Charlie had been worried by the attention at first but it had proven valuable on several occasions. Rowdy college boys tended to settle down more quickly when separated by a vampire. A growl and a not so gentle arm-twisting was also effective. They knew I was stronger and faster and that was usually enough to move the fight out of the club.

My only problem was that I had gotten comfortable. I had gotten lost in the details. Let the routine of my life consume me. To sate my demon, every few days I patrolled the darker side of town and beat up a few baddies or staked a few vampires. I wasn't fighting the good fight. I wasn't keeping the population safe or doing the right thing. Just looking for a spot of violence to keep my evil half relatively happy. That was all. I'm not Angel and I'm not Buffy's lap dog anymore. I am my own man. Sort of.

My wake-up call came in the form of a little girl wearing a red hat and matching galoshes. She showed up one night while I was strolling through one of the many cemeteries looking for various nasties. She was pissed. I could see it in the black holes she had for eyes.

"You have not killed the Slayer."

"Still in jail, snack-size." I raised one eyebrow and stuck my hands in my jeans pockets. "Vampire remember. Visiting hours are during the day." That seemed to throw the evil little bitch for a second.

"We grow impatient."

"Soon as she's out. Promise." What else am I supposed to say?

"Soon."

"Right. Soon. I got it." Is evil always hard of hearing or is it just the evil that pretends to be little girls? "Be there soon as she gets out from behind bars. No more Slayer. Satisfied?" She doesn't answer, just Cheshire Cat smiles into the night and is gone without further ado. I really need to find out what's behind that pretty smile. I need to get off my ass and finish the job. The thought turns my stomach and I head home.

It's the point of no return for me. I have my new life now. I have people who smile when they see me because they can forget I'm a demon. People who think they know me and think they care about me. But underneath the trappings and the lies, I'm still a demon. In the grand scheme of the world, I'm insignificant. One trapped insect about to be pinned to someone's collection of specimens. I'm a vampire. Can't ever forget that. Can't ever forget.

There's a certain level of frustration because it's been four years since Africa and I still don't know who I am. I still don't know what it is that I've been searching for in this world. I'm no closer now than I was when I left Sunnydale like a bat out of Hell.

Killing Faith makes a strange sort of sense. I haven't fed from a human since before Glory used me as her punching bag. Haven't killed a human in years. What if this missing part of me is the thrill of the hunt? Of the kill? What if I am a killer, despite the soul? Humans with fully functioning souls kill each other every day. Is that what I am? That question leads to the core of vampirism. Is it all the demon? Or is a vampire merely the human without a conscience. Was William a murderer at heart? Bound only by society and guilt. I don't even know what I am.

I'm no hero. That much is plain as the day I'll never see. I'm not a white hat or a knight in shining armor. It's as good a place to start as any. If I can know what I'm not, maybe I'll know what I am.

California is calling. I need to be ready and waiting; make it quick and painless. Or not. Frowning as I climb the fire escape, never did run up and down the halls to wake people up, I wonder if a Slayer deserves the honor of being killed in battle. They are warriors. They should die fighting. I suppose. I'm not a warrior any longer so I refuse to empathize with the girl. She's prey now. The hunt has begun.

Why do I feel more alone now than I did before? What is the purpose of time if it can't heal these wounds? I'm shaking because everything I thought I knew is crumbling around me. It's laughable. Big bad vampire. Big pathetic vampire. Pathetic shmuck. Would I ever be anything else?

My mind is light-years away when I check on Faith's progress. She's up for review in a week. Somehow I know that this time she'll get out. I've had four years of relative peace and now it's time to pay the piper. The laptop I bought two years ago at Leila's insistence hums beneath my fingers as I navigate through websites. I'm looking for a number. This is my game and I'm going to make the rules. The evil bitch will have Faith's head but I'm going to call the shots. Faith deserves that. I deserve that.

There it is. A name. A number. It's one in the morning here and seven across the ocean in the mother country. My fingers are steady as I dial the numbers into the phone. It rings. I'm tapping my foot against the table leg, mumbling an apology to my imaginary companion drawing masterpieces.

"Hello?" Rupert Giles' voice comes through on the fourth ring, sounding lost and far away at the other end of the line.

"You Watchers still around?" I sound like I did years ago, taunting Buffy in the high school. Even my accent changes, becoming rougher and thicker than it has been here in New Orleans. There's silence on the other end and I wonder if he's going to hang up.

There's silence, enough to make me think the connection has been lost, before he speaks again. "Spike?"

"One and only. Miss me?"

"Why are you calling me? And no. I didn't miss you at all." He sounds stuffy and British as ever.

"Just a friendly hello, Watcher. No need to get your knickers in a twist." I'm relaxing, surprised at how good it feels to hear one of the voices from Sunnydale. "Wondering if you bloody wankers made it through the big evil few years back. Shape shifting fella, called himself the First." More silence.

"Yes." There's more in that one word than I can begin to decipher. It must have gotten worse than I had thought. Something tenses inside of me and I have to resist asking about the Scoobies. After a moment, he continues, "Most of the Watchers and the Council were killed. A new council formed a year ago. Why do you care, Spike?"

"Got a message for 'em." I close my eyes and wish the deep breath I'm taking actually soothed me.

"Yes?"

"Tell 'em William the Bloody is back in the game, Watcher." I don't expect an answer to that. "Tell 'em I'm going back to what I do best."

"And what is that, exactly?" His voice is level with just a hint of concern.

"Killin' Slayers, Watcher. I'm aiming for number three in a few weeks time."

"You can't beat Buffy."

"Don't need to. She's not the one I'm after." I end the conversation and the phone clicks back into the receiver. Giles would tell the new Council, he'd tell Buffy, he'd probably even tell Faith. They would all know I was coming and they'd send Faith to Buffy for protection. Back to California. Back to Sunnydale.

Let the games begin.

* * *

"Buffy, is that you?"

"Giles? It's eleven o'clock. On a Friday night. Why would I be home instead of out on a hot date? On second thought, don't answer that." Buffy's voice is cheerfully chastising.

"Spike is back and he's going after Slayers."

"What? How?"

"He called. Some sort of perverse heads up, I suppose. He's after Faith. We have no reason to believe he'll stop there."

"No problem then. Faith's still in jail."

"She's up for parole review again next week."

"Do you think she'll get out?"

"There's a good chance." Giles must have taken his glasses off to clean them, his voice was muffled. "You'll need to protect her if she does. And for God's sake, will you kill him this time?"

"One stake through the heart coming up. He'd better not show his face in my town."

"I need to call the Council. I wanted you to know first."

"Thanks, Giles. I'll put the crew on full alert."

"Be careful, Buffy. I think he's changed. He sounded different."

"Insane? Because that's what he is if he's thinking of coming back here."

"He sounded," Giles paused. "Well, he sounded different. I don't know how."

"Don't worry. He's never beaten me. We can handle this."

"Yes." Another pause. "I'll talk to you soon. We'll see if we can track him down. Figure out where he's been the last few years."

"On with the research. Good bye, Giles."

"Good luck, Buffy." Click. He was gone. Buffy stared at the phone, listening to the dial tone without interest. Slowly, she turned back toward the small group of people waiting for her to return to the monopoly game. Xander, Giles, Willow, Dawn; the four constants in her life. There had been five until one ugly night in her bathroom.

"Buff? New evil coming?" Xander rolled the dice absently, not watching as the cubes danced across the board.

Buffy tried to smile and finally put the phone back in the cradle. "Old evil, actually."

"What is it? Apocalypse?" The faint scar that crossed Willow's face wrinkled as she smiled.

"Spike." Buffy was still standing, looking down at her friends with a confused expression. It wasn't supposed to hurt. Spike was evil. He was a vampire. Soulless thing. It wasn't supposed to hurt to know he was back on the killing and maiming circuit. How had he gotten the chip out?

"He's alive?" Dawn was trying not to look happy about it.

"And he's decided to kill a few more Slayers. Starting with Faith." Only silence responded to her announcement and she knew they were feeling the same shock she had.

"You're going to kill him."

"If he comes after Faith, I'll have to. No more live and let live." Buffy finally sat down, not actually seeing the game in front of her. One more pile of dust. Why didn't it feel right? She tried to smile and shake herself out of her confusion. "I guess that answers the question of whether or not he still loves me. Big no."

"No more chip either, I guess. Before." Willow looked thoughtful. "Maybe that's why he left. To get it out."

"Probably."

"Peace and quiet is over-rated anyway." Xander attempted to lighten the mood by turning back to the game, picking up his miniature car to move it down six spaces. "And I've missed the constant second hand smoke with all its cancer badness."

"We could have a reunion," Dawn suggested playfully. "Get Angel and the gang. Maybe even Drusilla. It'd be fun. Bring your own blood and sit back to watch the violence. Much better than celebrity death match or wrestling."

"That's the spirit. Just another vampire coming to town." Willow's smile widened, scooping up the dice to take her turn. "We could even crash the high school for old time's sake. Dawn and I will hide in the utility closet."

"I think I'll try not to get myself offered to Spike as a snack this time," Xander joked as Willow landed on one of his properties, but the levity wasn't real and no one was fooling anyone.

An old enemy was coming home. They had to kill him. Somehow, it kinda sucked.

* * *

I headed out of New Orleans, leaving behind Charlie's sad eyes and the old familiar club that had become such a part of my life. Of me. I had a job waiting in Sunnydale. Feature writer for the Sunnydale Press. It didn't pay much but it would do. I could find something else to get by if the need arose.

The second I knew Faith was on her way out of jail and headed to Sunnydale, I packed up and left the city that had been my home. It felt strange to be driving down the highway again. Another motorcycle. Another duster. This one was all mine. All me. Fresh off the rack and gleaming across my shoulders. New boots too. The image was complete. Hell, I even painted my nails. It almost made me laugh. When I wasn't wishing for one of the soft pairs of blue jeans bundled into the duffle strapped behind me instead of the tight leather I was wearing.

Everything I owned fit into one duffle bag. Clothes, shoes, laptop. A box with all those precious pieces of paper I had sweat blood to get. One duffle was my whole world. It was pathetic and lonely. It was also liberating. Wind in my hair, the roar of an engine beneath me, and not a care in the world except a dark haired Slayer waiting in Sunnydale. It felt good to have a purpose again. To be hunting again. It felt good to be me.

My soul was pouting in a corner, whispering warnings of future heartbreak and pain. I ignored him. This was what I was born to do. It was in my blood and I could feel the strength of my demon coursing through me. It was more than two thousand miles to Sunnydale and would take me the better part of a week to cross the country at night. Two thousand miles to think and wonder what it would feel like to be back in Sunnydale again. To see Buffy and the Scoobies again. They'd be armed. They'd be ready. I could almost see Buffy's face, chiseled in stone with only her eyes giving away what she was really feeling. Those luminous, expressive eyes that I had fallen into. They'd pulled me in and drowned in her pain, her confusion, after being ripped out of Heaven.

I hadn't thought of that year for a while. The memories were a little faded and had lost the intensity of reality. Pain dulled, shame faded, and guilt became a whisper. I had hurt her. I couldn't deny it. But I couldn't seem to care about it either. It was just one more in the list of my sins. Comparatively it paled against the blood and tears that marked the rest of my life. One attempted rape on a rap sheet of murder and mayhem didn't seem as important as it had at the time. That led to another one of those proverbial light bulb moments.

The soul wasn't for Buffy. It had never been for Buffy. It was for me. Because I had lost everything that defined me, lost my identity, my raison d'etre. What was left of the chipped vampire who had made mooneyes at the Slayer? Nothing. That vamp was long gone. I was crawling out of my cocoon, finding myself in this crazy world of light and dark.

A wicked smile spread across my face in anticipation of seeing Buffy again. This time I wouldn't turn into a simpering puppy when she frowned at me. I wouldn't buckle beneath her glare, submitting to her whims. I was beyond her power now. It was freedom. It was wonderful. I should have gone back years ago and broken her pretty little neck for making me weak. Faith was a job, Faith was a detour. This was payback for leaving me with nothing. If I had to eat every last Slayer and tear the new Wanker's Council down with my own two hands, they would all get what was coming to them. They had forgotten what I was. They had forgotten who I was.

They were bloody well going to remember.


	5. Lost

**Lost**

The old me would have run the bleedin' sign over. _Welcome to Sunnydale._ Where ignorance is still thriving like the weed you can never kill, choking your flowers and ruining the lawn. Where death wears high-heeled boots and perfume. Where the white hats drown in their own hypocrisy while they persecute and hunt demons like me. I didn't run over the sign because that would mean that the old Spike had come back to the Hellmouth.

I burned it down.

Watched the burning sign glow and smoke in the night as I lit my first cigarette in months before headed into town with its cheerful letters blazing behind me. It felt good. Not much had changed in my years of absence. Streets still ran the same directions. Same store fronts. The Magic Box was gone. Willy's place still reeked of booze and foreigners. It was a bit sparse on the clientele, but an interesting mix of demons passing through on vacation and a few demons here to stay. You can feel the Hellmouth beneath the city. Lends the town a certain je ne said quois that's both subtly mysterious and unmistakably evil. The idle chatter and smoke make me nostalgic for quiet afternoons in Blue Cats staring down into a pint and passing time with Leila. I shake off the memory. New Orleans is long gone.

First item of business was to get myself noticed. Didn't take too long. There were still some old familiar faces in the filthy room.

"Spike! You're back!" Clem was grinning through the folds on his face, his floppy ears bouncing slightly as he made his way across the room, drink in hand and the familiar smell of cheese puffs floating along with him. "How've you been, old pal?"

"Not bad." I flick open my lighter and start on my second cancer-stick. "What's happened in dear ol' Sunnyhell?"

"You missed the fight a few years back. It was something." His arms are doing the wave. I wonder if his species were supposed to look like that or if he had just let himself go. Never thought of that before. I was too wrapped up in my Buffy obsession to notice anything else. That only adds fuel to my rage. The bint had taken up too much of my life. I blink when I realize he is still describing the battle with the First Evil in some detail.

"What? What happened to Anya?" I couldn't have heard him right.

"Dead. Poor girl. Hardly anyone was left. It's a tragedy really." Clem sighs sadly and looks down at the drink in his hands.

Anya was dead. My head is spinning, trying to come to grips with everything that had changed. "Anyone else? Who's left?"

"There's the Slayer. And I heard that there's another Slayer in town now. Came in Monday I think. Xander, Willow, Dawn. I think the English guy went back home. It's been pretty quiet for about a year now. Just the usual demons and such."

"Tara?"

"Who?"

I frown impatiently. "Willow's girlfriend. Quiet little mouse of a girl."

"Oh." Clem's eyes light up when he remembers who she was. "Been dead for a long time now. Before the big evil even. I heard she was shot. A lot went down after that, scary stuff too. Poor Willow's never really been the same."

Now I'm reeling. I'd imagined them all, still here where I left them. Waiting and living out their mortal lives. I hadn't been gone that long. Not long enough for people to die. Why did I care? Another question I didn't have an answer for. Tara and Anya had been good. They had accepted me in their own way before the rest of the gang even looked at me any direction other than sideways.

"Dawn graduated from High School. The new one. They had to rebuild again. At least they put it on the other side of town this time, away from the Hellmouth." He shudders when he says it. "She's taking a few classes at UC Sunnydale and I see her on patrol with Buffy some times."

Patrol? Dawn on patrol? Dawn in college? My Dawn? I stop that train of thought, cutting it off at the pass. She wasn't my Dawn. She had never been my Dawn. She was just the Slayer's brat kid sister, no more, no less. I wasn't here to be friendly with the wildlife. I was here for the hunt. For the kill.

"Want me to tell her you're in town?"

That was my cue. What I'd been waiting for. Not quite as effective as nailing a dead puppy to their front door but I figure Angelus had covered all of those bases years ago. If Faith was here then the Slayers already knew I was coming and there wasn't any need to be dramatic. Didn't mean I couldn't be though. Old Spike would have stalked her, burst through windows, chased after her and never shut his mouth. That wasn't me anymore.

"No thanks, mate. Tell her myself." I try to keep my smile genuine, but it only sort of works and Clem can tell there's something wrong.

"What's happened with you, Spike?"

"Got the chip out." I throw in casually, just loud enough for listening ears to hear.

"That's great! I know you always hated that thing. What are you going to do now?" Sweet naive Clem.

"Figured I'd kill myself a couple of Slayers." I drop the unfinished cigarette to the ground and crush it with the toe of my boot. "Have some fun. Visit the old stomping grounds." He was still staring at me with a puzzled look on his face, as though trying to decide if he'd heard me right.

"So you're over your...in love with the Slayer phase?"

I laugh. It's cold enough to chill my own blood and a stillness settles over the bar. Voices hush and all ears tune to my voice when I continue. "Demons like me don't love, Clem. Just the chip is all. No chip now. Slayer made me her bitch. I mean to repay the favor." My voice is ice and I glance around quickly to make sure everyone got the message. There's something in the room that I haven't felt in years. Respect. And fear. I could learn to like this.

"Well. It's good to see you. Welcome home." Even the perpetually cheerful Clem seems flustered and dismayed.

I shrug and head out of the bar, having made a suitable impression and told a very loud-mouthed demon about my plans. A dark niche down the alley way offers a place to hide until I see Clem leave the bar and head down the street. Keeping a few yards behind, I tail him easily. He never even looks back.

We cross the town and enter one of Sunnydale's newer cemeteries. I fall back when he stops at a crypt, taking a seat on one of the benches and waiting nervously in the darkness. Still as death, I move into the deep shadows between the bushes and the crypt. Who or what was he waiting for? It had to be Buffy. I find it interesting that he knows her patrol routes.

I smell her before I see her. That same old lotion she always kept by her bed. It used to make her skin soft as silk, I remember that a little too clearly and shove the memory away as hard as I can. There was another scent as well, a darker, muskier aroma. People never think of it. How their smells mark them, identify them; every nuance of their smell makes them easy to find, easy to follow. From the blood beneath their skin to the shampoo they use, it gives each one of them an unmistakable signature. Soft footsteps sounded through the cemetery. Clem probably wouldn't see them until they were on top of him. Not the most observant of demons.

"Clem! What are you doing here?" It was Buffy's voice and it brought back a flood of memories I had tried desperately to forget.

"It's Spike. He's in town and I don't think he's himself at all." Clem sounds nervous.

"You've seen him?"

"Tonight at Willy's bar. Said he got the chip out and that he was here to kill you. Both of you actually."

Both. The unfamiliar scent must be Faith. It was a wonder Buffy hadn't chained her up in the basement or something. I resist the urge to peek around the crypt and catch a glimpse of the girl. I would see her soon enough.

"We've heard." New voice. Lower than Buffy's, more expressive. Sexy as hell. What is it with me and Slayers? It's sickening.

"Did he say anything? I know he likes to brag about his crazy plans. Anything at all? Do you know where he is?" That was my Buffy. All battle plans and strategies. Interrogate, exterminate. No finesse.

"I'm sorry, Buffy." I thought I could hear the slap of his skin folds as he shook his head. "That's all he told me. Although he did say he wasn't, you know, in love with you anymore."

"One bright spot in this whole ridiculous circus."

"He was in love with you, B? You didn't tell me." There's an edge to the playful jab. Something's there that I don't understand.

"I keep hoping it was all just a bad dream." Buffy's sigh was strained. "Let's split up and get this cemetery over with. I don't want to be out here longer than we have to."

"Sure thing, B. I'll take the north."

I listen to them head off in opposite directions. Clem shuffles out of the cemetery and back toward the bar. I felt stung by Buffy's words but not surprised. I was dirt. She'd made that point loud and clear on about a hundred occasions. I was nothing in her eyes. Anger was rearing its ugly head and making me impatient. I could go after Faith now, cut her off from Buffy and finish the job. I didn't want to. I wanted to savor this. I wanted Buffy to know she couldn't stop me.

My decision made, I creep through the bushes as Buffy sweeps through her section of the graveyard. Slipping along the wall, I leap onto one of the concrete blocks next to the gate. She hasn't seen me yet, heading my direction with her eyes trained on the graves at her feet. My lighter flares in my hand and I take one long draw from the cigarette, waiting for her to get closer. The glowing end arcs through the air, trailing ash, to land a few feet away from her. She stops, frozen in her tracks as her eyes slowly make their way up the wall.

I smirk. It felt good to smirk. Her face is as impassive as ever. Had I ever believed there had been anything gentle or kind behind that stone mask of hers? "Hello, cutie."

"Spike." Her grip on the stake in her hand tightens and she quickly glances around for Faith.

"She's on her way, Slayer."

"Nice coat. New?" She doesn't say what happened to the old one.

I take a moment to admire the duster hanging from my shoulders. "The old one just wasn't cutting it. Ever tell you where I got that one?"

"Where?" She was usually more talkative than this. Where were the quips and barbs she reserved for yours truly?

"The second Slayer I killed. Took it off her dead body." I get a response this time. Anger flashes through her eyes and I smile.

"And you're here to try to kill me. What makes you think you even have a chance?"

Another shrug. "Here for the other bird, actually. You're just for fun."

"Fun?" She sounds a little shocked.

"Fun, Slayer. Vampire here. It's what we do." I tip my head to one side, catching a glimpse of Faith across the cemetery. She's picked up her pace, seeing me on the wall. "Love to stay and chat about old times and such. Some other time. When you're dead maybe. You can't open that pretty little mouth of yours that way." Another grin and I've stepped off the wall backwards, landing in a crouch and heading off into the forest at an easy pace. She won't follow. She's unsure enough about what I'm doing, how I've changed, that she'll pull back. She'll want a strategy, she'll want to talk to Giles. Some things never changed.

First item of business is taken care of. The second is a little more mundane. Have to find a legitimate place of abode and get settled in. One good thing about my new life. No more cold crypts to call home. My faithful motorcycle is waiting just beyond the trees and I head back to the motel I checked into earlier that night.

The soul is squirming inside me like a parasite, hating the taunting, hating the threats. Feeling bad about Anya and Tara. Wondering if I should go out and find their graves. On second thought. It wouldn't hurt to pay my respects. I don't hold a grudge against either of them. Could swing by and catch Joyce as well. Regular memorial day for the evil undead. With the exception of Dawn, the only people who had ever been civil to me were all six feet under.

Vaguely I wonder if I'm losing my mind. Feeling bad, thinking of getting flowers, wanting to rip Buffy's face off. All in the same unnecessary breath. Maybe I had gone round the bend back in New Orleans. For a brief moment I wonder what I'm doing here in Sunnydale, making threats against two Slayers. I could have kept my mouth shut, not warned Giles, just waited for Faith outside the prison and drained her dry. What was I doing? What was happening to me?

Exhausted, I stumble into my motel room and choke down a bag of lukewarm blood. The mattress squeals beneath me as I collapse onto it, staring at the ceiling with blank, unfocused eyes. I was lost.

I started down this road full of vengeance and rage. Determined to make them pay for my humiliation, my broken heart, and the mistake of getting my damn soul back. They had ruined me. This town. The Scoobies. I had left my new life with a blind determination to make them suffer as I suffered. I had to kill Faith, that was the deal. The rest of them were just supposed to be for fun. Fun.

Pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes, I try to tune out my nagging soul. Angel could suppress his demon. Why couldn't I suppress William? Shut him up, shut him out. Maybe I could find a way to get rid of it. Maybe Red would know a spell. That stopped me. I couldn't very well kidnap the witch and make her remove my soul. Then again, the idea had possibilities. My life would be much simpler without the nagging voice and endless guilt. No chip. No soul. I could really be William the Bloody again.

That depressed me. It was just one more charade. In New Orleans I had pretended to be a man. Now I was pretending to be the vampire I had been before Sunnydale. Just pretending. I wasn't either of those. One more identity that wasn't mine. Faceless. Reckless. Lost.

Sleep was a luxury I couldn't allow until I knew I was out of the Slayers' radar. Listlessly, I watched television until the day had begun and I could begin building my life again.

The Sunnydale Press was happy to hear from me, curious at my request to submit my work via email and my hesitation to come in to the main office. Fortunately, this was Sunnydale and they knew better than to ask too many questions. Want ads provided a handful of apartments for rent and I had a list of places to visit the second the sun slipped over the horizon. The owners didn't think twice about my request to come after dark. What kind of vampire rented an apartment?

I dressed in a pair of comfortable blue jeans and one of the white silk shirts I had worn as a uniform at the club. My hair was still bleached regularly but I let it grow out a bit, preferring the loose curls that were easier to maintain than the slicked back style. Finger combing was all that was required. Still damp from my shower, I pulled my laptop onto the bed and plugged it in. There were a few hours to kill before sundown and I could get started on the first piece they wanted. Something people could relate to, something thought provoking but not too controversial. Something about me, my past, and how I came to Sunnydale. An introduction article was what they wanted.

Who was going to relate to me? A dead human being. A defanged vampire. I didn't fit anywhere. I shook my head. Two hundred and fifty words about me. It couldn't be that hard.

* * *

"Hey Buffy." Dawn didn't look up from her bowl of cereal, intently reading something in the newspaper.

"Whatcha reading?"

"New writer. Sounds pretty cool." Milk slurped from her spoon and she pointed to the paper in front of her. Where they normally ran a picture of the author, there was a cartoon face with curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked slightly confused, with a goofy smile and wide eyes.

"Cool." Buffy only read the obituaries looking for weird deaths.

Faith breezed into the kitchen, coming through the back door. "Nada on the crypts in Restfield. No new vamps have moved in."

"Where is he?" Buffy pulled a stool up to the island and began peeling her banana. "This isn't like him. He can't sit still for five minutes. It's been three days."

Dawn glanced up from her newspaper. "Maybe he changed his mind."

"He seemed determined to me." Faith balanced on one foot, then the other, shifting awkwardly as though waiting for her chance to bolt from the room.

"Pull up a chair and stay awhile." Buffy's voice was carefully casual. The dark haired slayer hesitated for a moment before she complied, taking the comics from the stack of papers and starting to read.

"Has Clem seen him again?" Dawn finished off her cereal and dumped the bowl into the sink, returning to her paper.

"Not since he got here. I don't get it. He's not at the factory or the mansion or any of the usual crypts. Where else could he be?" Buffy frowned. "We haven't checked the sewers yet. We should check."

Faith grimaced. "He'll come to us B. He's here to kill us remember."

"Actually he said he was here for you. I'm just a bonus. Kind of a two-fer."

"That makes me feel so much better." Faith rolled her eyes. "I've never fought him before. What's he like in action?"

"He's unpredictable, impulsive. Passionate. It's a dance for him. A game."

"Passionate?" Faith raised one eyebrow. She knew there was more to the Spike and Buffy saga than she was being told. Taking the paper from Dawn, she glanced down at the article Dawn had been reading. It was a new feature article. Normally she didn't bother reading the paper but the title was pretty catchy. Of Mice and Vampires. It was unusual to even see the word vampire in the paper. "Hey B. Listen to this."

_"All Hail from New Orleans, home of never ending parties soaked in alcohol and affectionately known as the city of the dead. The world of Anne Rice and her vampire with a soul. Wandering the many above ground cemeteries of the city, it's easy to see shadows that could be ghosts or creatures of the night. It's a world of magic, voodoo, and fantasy. Anything is possible in the streets of New Orleans. It's easy to get caught up in the atmosphere and forget the real world that will beckon in the morning. To dream of such incredible things as noble vampires and benevolent spirits. Who are we kidding? A vampire with a soul? That would only happen as a pathetic plot device in a novel or TV show."_

"Hey!" Buffy leaned across the island to see the article. "What would he know about it?"

_"Why leave a city of open arms and friendly demons? Sunny California called and I came running. Home to bottle blonds with bronze skin, endless surfing, and Hollywood stars. California has it all. Strange happenings, unexplained phenomena, disappearances. For those who have been living under a rock, Welcome to Sunnydale. Epicenter of weirdness and ground zero of the Twilight Zone. Expect the unexpected and invest in a good pair of running shoes."_

"At least someone in this town isn't blind." Dawn forced herself to go back to working on her term paper, keeping half an ear open as Faith read the article.

_"I'm here to brighten up your Saturday mornings with my wit and charm. Not with dribble about protecting your roses from insects - that's Tuesday - or who's dating who - you can get that at the Espresso Pump or the Bronze. I'm here to bring you a stranger's delight in the fair town you call home. To see the things you've overlooked because you see them everyday. To hear the things you can only tell a stranger. Call me Mulder. I believe."_

"Great. An X-Files fan. Who wants to bet we end up tripping over him on patrol? He'll probably want an interview." Buffy shook her head with disgust and pulled the paper out of Faith's hands.

"It's nice to know that occasionally someone notices the stuff that goes on here." Faith shrugged. "Come on, B. The high school's been wiped out twice now and they're just getting the hint to put it somewhere else. And all the weird bites? How many people can actually die by fainting and landing on a barbeque fork?"

"I admit it's nice. But he's just going to get himself killed if he sticks his nose in some demon's business." Buffy rubbed her neck irritably. "Now I have to worry about a crazy journalist looking for aliens."

"I like it. I think he has a nice sense of humor." Dawn piped up, giving her long hair a toss. "And the cartoon is cute."

"He's probably a nerd. Bet he knows Star Wars by heart."

"Again, not of the good. Remember the last time we had nerds following me around. People died." Buffy was really scowling now. Upset that they hadn't been able to find Spike and annoyed that the Sunnydale Press chose now to open its eyes.

"Don't worry, Buff. No one will really believe it. They'll think he's joking." Dawn tried to sooth her sister. "And you'll find Spike. I know you will. And you'll kick his skinny, undead ass."

"Damn straight." Faith grinned and retrieved the paper from Buffy. "Until then, I'm going to enjoy reading this lovely piece by one William Davis. I think it's funny."

"Fine. Why can't you two watch Saturday morning cartoons like the rest of the kids?"

"Ha, Ha. Funny, B. Very funny."

A knock on the front door sounded a moment before Xander's voice carried through the dining room. "Buffy? Dawn?"

"In here Xan!" Buffy called, noting that Faith made a quick exit to the backyard. Xander rounded the corner, his face dark and angry, and a bouquet of roses clutched tightly in his left hand.

Dawn grinned across the island. "For me?"

Xander shook his head mutely, dropping the roses on the counter as if avoiding invisible teeth and claws trying to hurt him. "I found them at Anya's grave. There was a note." His fingers trembled as he held out the crumpled card.

Buffy took the piece of paper, a frown creasing her brow as she read, "Anyanka. Never got to thank you for one memorable night. S." She heard the hiss of her own breath as her teeth clamped shut a moment before she exploded into a rant. "What the hell is his game? This has to be Spike. Has to be. This is sick, even for him."

"Maybe he was trying to be nice." Dawn offered, cringing when she received blistering looks from her elders. "Or not."

"We should check Tara's grave." Xander still looked furious. "I'll call Willow."

"Good idea. We'll be right back, Dawn."

"Buffy." Dawn bit her lip anxiously. "What about mom?"

Buffy winced. "We'll check there too. Tell Faith what's going on when she comes back."

"No problem. I'm command central." Dawn watched them leave, waiting for the sound of the front door slamming shut before she picked up the roses and began looking for a vase to put them in. No sense in wasting perfectly good flowers. They were beautiful. Full, sweet, soft as silk against her skin. Blood red. Anya would have loved them.

"Is he gone?" Faith's head appeared around the corner. "Roses. For you?"

"Spike left them at Anya's grave. They had a thing." Dawn motioned to the card as she clipped the stems and stuffed the flowers into one of her mother's vases. Placing them carefully in the center of the island, she went back to her paper.

"It's sweet."

"I thought so too. Buffy thinks he's pulling an Angelus."

"She would."

"Yeah. She never really got Spike. Even when they were doing it like bunnies."

"What?" Faith did a double take. "Buffy and Spike? Fucking?"

"Like every second of the day." Dawn rolled her eyes. "Until Buffy broke it off and Spike tried to rape her. Then he disappeared."

"Knew she wasn't telling me everything." Faith shook her head.

"Probably thought you'd laugh at her. Or get mad or judge her. She's still pretty weird about it."

"Judge her." Faith frowned, fondling the card in her hand. "I can see that. She always has to be perfect."

"Yeah. It was after she came back from the dead. Major issues involved." Dawn sighed and pushed her paper away, breathing the scent of roses into her lungs. "I don't know why she was so upset about the Anya thing anyway. They were totally broken up when she and Spike did the wild thing at the Magic Box. Xander tried to kill him."

"I can see that." Faith repeated, not knowing what else to say.

"It was so long ago. It's strange that he's come back after all these years just to kill you and Buffy. Why not when the big Evil came and you broke out of jail to help Angel? He totally could have killed you both. It was so crazy we probably wouldn't have noticed."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Faith grinned. "But you're right. Maybe he didn't know I was out of jail. Where'd Buffy go anyway?"

"To check the rest of the Scooby graves for more flowers. I hope there are more flowers. I like flowers." Dawn touched one of the rose buds gently, enjoying the texture against her fingertips. "How are you and Buffy doing?"

"Okay. There's tension. But it's okay. Being hunted by a psycho vampire kind of helps you look past some of your differences." Faith put her chin on her fist, staring up at the flowers. "I don't get this Spike guy. I've read everything about him in the Watcher's Chronicles and the stuff that Giles sent. It doesn't match up. I wish I had a better feel for him. Maybe I could figure out what he's up to."

"Spike's simple." Dawn shrugged. "He's more like a human than a vampire. He does things for the same reasons you and I do, only times about a thousand. He came here to fix Drusilla because he loved her. He came back to kill Buffy because he thought it was her fault Dru left him. Then he fought with us because he loved Buffy. He took care of me because he promised Buffy he would protect me."

"Doesn't sound like the monster the books talk about. The one who killed two Slayers."

"Spike's like that. He never does what you think he's gonna do." Dawn frowned thoughtfully. "It doesn't make any sense to me either. This whole killing Slayers thing. Why call Giles and tell him all about it? Before you were even out of jail. Spike's not a big genius with the master plans. He's more of the kill first and ask questions later kind of guy."

"Calling Giles means he's thinking ahead."

"And that is very un-Spike. Even when he does make plans, he gets bored and ruins them." Dawn shrugged. "We're in uncharted territory here. Who knows where he's been and what's happened to him."

"Was he a friend? I mean, did you think of him as a friend?"

"Sort of. For a while." Dawn caught the Slayer's eyes. "He was all I had for a while. Willow and Tara were busy with the spell to bring Buffy back. Xander had Anya. Spike and I had each other. He treated me like a person when everyone else didn't. He." She stopped, feeling tears starting to form in her eyes.

"You don't want him to die." Faith was watching her with intense curiosity.

"No. I don't. Not if there's a chance I could get him back. The way he was." Dawn shook her head sadly. "Buffy thinks this is her chance to make up for sleeping with him. That if she kills him now, she'll be able to forgive herself for it. At least that's how I see it."

"You see a lot, Dawn." Faith smiled, a genuine smile without malice or a defense mechanism firmly in place. It was almost warm.

"Yeah. I guess."

The conversation was cut short by the crash of the front door and heavy footsteps of Buffy and Xander. Willow was a few steps behind them, her face pale and lined with worry. A bouquet of daisies and another of tiger lilies dropped onto the counter. Two more notes were tossed on top of them.

"What do they say?" Faith scooped up the notes. "Tara. Blessed Be. S."

"With the lilies," Willow said tightly. "They were her favorite."

"Joyce. A thing of beauty is a joy forever: It's loveliness increases; It will never pass into nothingness. S." Faith frowned and glanced down at the daisies.

"We have to find him." Buffy was seething. "I am going to hurt him. Badly."

"Nothing wrong with a few flowers, B."

Buffy stared at her, "It starts with flowers. Then it's dead fish, pictures on your pillow, and dead friends. He's playing with us. He knew we'd find these."

"Fine. Whatever." Faith shrugged and backed away from the counter.

Dawn pulled out two more vases and took care of the flowers, trying to ignore Buffy's ranting about what she would do to Spike when she found him. Her mother had loved daisies. They were life and innocence. They reminded her of when Dawn and Buffy were little. Buffy at least, since Dawn technically hadn't been there. But they had stood for happy times when they had been a family. A lifetime ago before there were Slayers and vampires and the only thing Joyce Summers had to worry about was taking care of her family. The notes had been personal. Intimate. Almost loving. That wasn't like Spike either. None of this crazy affair was like him at all.

"Dawn?"

"Yeah?" She was startled out of her thoughts, seeing Buffy frowning at her. "They're pretty. I like them." She said defensively as she added the flowers to the table. "You could have left them on the graves you know. It wouldn't have hurt anything."

"I hate that he even knows where they are."

"Fine." Dawn picked up her term paper again, pretending to be editing.

"Dawn. I don't want you going out at night without either me or Faith. Understand?"

"I understand. The Big Bad is back. I got the bloody memo." Dawn didn't catch the grimace on her sister's face at her unintentional use of one of Spike's favorite words. If she had, she probably would have thrown in sodding and bollucks just to be spiteful.

"We'll get him. Willow? Location spell?"

"I'll get on it." Willow nodded brusquely.

"We end this. Tonight. He's pissed me off for the last time." Buffy glared at the flowers as if they themselves were the embodiment of everything she feared and hated.

* * *

The flowers didn't last long. Should have known the most holy Scooby gang would take offense and jump to all the wrong conclusions. Didn't matter. I had paid my respects and said my peace. The dead would know I was sincere. That's all that mattered to me.

It also meant that I probably had one very brassed off Slayer on my heels and a powerful witch at her side. That meant they could find me with magic. I was prowling the streets aimlessly, watching, waiting. Bored beyond anything I've known. I had a plan. I always have a plan. Plans require careful thought and a helluva lot of patience, which I had in short supply. I was itching for a good fight. Something to get the bloodlust racing and appease the demon. I needed to kill something before I lost my grip on reality.

Streets grew quiet, alleys faded away. I found myself wandering through my old cemetery, wondering if anyone had moved into my crypt. Not much had been left of it after Soldier Boy's visit. I hate that bastard. Always would. Why hadn't the Cheshire Bitch asked me to kill that wanker instead of Faith?

The door was barely hanging on one hinge, shuddering and almost crashing to the ground when I push it open. It was empty. Everything valuable was long gone. Only piles of trash and dust remained. Behind the pillar was the familiar hole in the floor leading to the blackened remainder of what had been my bedroom. My home. The old wooden ladder still rested against the edge. There was a flickering light below, casting shadows through the opening. I sniff the stale air, trying to catch the scent of whatever or whoever was down there. There was a whiff of lavender soap. I know that smell.

Slipping down the ladder quietly, glancing over my shoulder to find the source of the light, I ease myself onto the floor of the crypt. The lower room had been gutted, the walls still smelling of fire and ash. A light blinked and bobbed in one corner. It was coming from the tunnels.

I step back into the shadows and wait. The beam of the flashlight twists around the bend and I watch her tiptoe into the room. She creeps to where the bed had been. There was a patch of concrete cleaned of charcoal, where a small box rested against the wall. Sitting down on a cinder block, she opens the box and begins to sift through the contents, humming softly. Once finished, she slips back to the tunnel entrance and disappears into the darkness.

Curious, I cross to the box and pick it up. The contents rattle a little as I lift it. Pushing the lid off carefully, I flip open my lighter to check inside. If I had a beating heart, it would have stopped.

Inside the box were the three cards I had left with the flowers, my old bottle of black nail polish, and my old lighter. There are a few photographs from Buffy's birthday party years ago. They're ripped and one of them looks like it was burned on the edges. What surprises me is that I'm in them. Looking like I met the wrong end of Fyarl's fist and watching Buffy but I'm there. There are other trinkets that I don't understand but know are connected to me somehow.

Closing the box and shutting my lighter, I place it gently back on the floor of the crypt and head into the tunnels after Dawn. The soul wants to wrap my arms around her and tell her I'm sorry I wasn't there for her graduation, for the last four years of her life, for her. The demon is uneasy. It doesn't want to kill her but it doesn't know what to make of the Box O' Spike I'm leaving behind.

Around the last bend I pick up the scent of fear. Human fear. My stomach does a flip and I vamp out, searching the shadows. There's a fork in the tunnels, I pause to check directions. Left. Moving toward one of the wider intersections. I can hear a heartbeat now, pounding furiously inside a human chest. Spurring me forward, I focus on the heartbeat as I creep through the tunnel.

Moonlight pours through one of the overhead grates and I catch sight of a dark figure the same moment I register that there is a vampire backing a human into the corner. Not just any human. Dawn.

I glance around for something wooden. There's nothing but steel and concrete. Lifting a metal rod silently from the ground, I decide it will have to do. Gripping it solidly, I can hear Dawn's breathing and the soft laughter of the vamp. Blind with rage, I start toward him. I swore to protect Dawn until the end of the world and goddamn it, I keep my bloody promises.

The pipe swings through the air and catches the vamp above the ear. He slides to the ground with a thud, out cold. I hit him again just to make sure and turn my attention to the frightened woman in front of me.

"Spike?"

"Don't suppose you have a stake handy?" She pulls her hand out from behind her back, revealing a Xander Harris special. I chuckle as I take the piece of wood and drive it into the vamp's heart, rendering him a pile of dust on the floor. There's silence in the tunnels and I hand the stake back to her. I don't know what to say. I don't know why I'm standing here. Bloody hell. I don't even know why I saved her.

"Spike." She's staring at me, not believing her eyes.

"Bit." That did it. She was a blur of brown hair and arms as she barreled out of the corner and wrapped herself around me with a strangle hold that would have made her sister proud.

"My God, Spike. I thought you were dead. I missed you so much." She was sobbing against my duster, clinging to me and trying to pull me closer.

I'm still shocked at the reunion. Hadn't Buffy told her why I'm here? Why was she keeping a box of mementos? More questions filled my head. Cautiously I placed one hand on her back, the other stroking her silken hair lightly.

"I don't care if you kill me. Just don't turn me. Okay? That's all I ask. I don't want Buffy to have to dust me." If I thought I couldn't be any more shocked, I was wrong. I'm torn between pushing her away from me and breaking down myself.

"Bit. I'm not going to kill you." My voice is strained, heavy with the tension of my internal war.

"Buffy told me. About you coming here to kill Faith. And her. I'm not going to ask you not to. Just promise me that if you do." Her big eyes are shining in the weak light. I remember that they're blue. "Promise me that you'll kill me too. I don't want to do this alone. Without Buffy. I can't."

"Dawn." My voice breaks, my heart shatters. I'm pushing her away, violently, and hoping that I haven't hurt her. Boots are pounding against concrete as I race through the tunnels, desperate to get away from her pleas and her big doe eyes. Was I still the weak, pathetic sap I had been so many years ago? Why hadn't I killed her? Or at least threatened her? What was wrong with me? I stumble out of one of the outlet drains into the forest, collapsing in the thick layer of leaves covering the ground.

She had asked me to kill her. Asked me. I'm shaking. Why am I shaking? A scream of frustration and anguish rips from my throat. I'm roaring my pain to the sky because I don't know what to do. I don't know what to be. I don't know how to live. I don't know how to die. I'm spiraling into something I can't understand or control. Losing control. Lost control. Lost. Just lost.


	6. No More Mind

**No More Mind**

Buffy came alone. I'm not surprised. The Slayer never let anyone into her life. Into her heart. Not after Angel ruined her. I wonder if he realizes he took more than her innocence that night. Probably not. The Magnificent Poof is too busy brooding to notice anyone else. I'm not Angel. I will never be Angel.

"Spike." Buffy is turning the stake in her hand casually. "You shouldn't have come back here."

"I know. I messed up your picture perfect life. You might actually have to think about something. Bad memories." I'm stalking around her, circling like a vulture. Lowering my voice to almost a whisper, I reach out to touch her hair. "Does it still get you hot when-" I don't get to finish my question because she knocks my hand away and raises the stake.

"I don't think about you, Spike. Ever." She's lying. Interesting.

"Pity. I remember you. The sounds you make. Whimpers. Moans." I'm close enough to get myself killed. "I wonder if you'll make the same sounds as you die." Her hand moves forward, I stop it easily, gripping her wrist tightly and wresting the stake from her fingers.

"I've beaten you before." She's glaring murderously at me. I can feel her trembling.

"That you have." I concede and back away, pulling out my cigarettes and lighting up. "This town, and you, have kicked my ass on several occasions. More than I care to remember. This time is different."

If she'd brought the Scoobies and a good crossbow, I'd be floating in the breeze right now, but she never understood the concept of teamwork. Too afraid of pain or of loss; she's never willing to risk anyone else. I bet she sent Faith off in the opposite direction tonight. Emotion overrides logic. There isn't a vampire in existence who could take on two Slayers and win, but here she is. Alone. Always alone. We have that in common.

"This is me, Slayer." I glance at her through a cloud of smoke. "You've never met the real me. Not 'til now."

"Why are you doing this, Spike? Why this crazy attack on Slayers? Have you lost your mind?" She still doesn't understand. She could argue with old Spike because he was whipped and neutered. There's a hint of something in her voice that surprises me. Pain.

"Come on, Slayer. Do what you came for." I flick the cigarette into one of the shadows in the alley. "Let's dance."

"Good bye, Spike." She sounds confident. Resolved.

We dance. It's lightning. Fluid, fast, fierce. She's strong, determined, and I can tell she's holding back just a little bit. I'm not. I'm loose, relaxed, and for the first time since that night in the high school so many years ago, there is nothing to keep me in check. This is just the dance.

Her small fists catch me, splitting my lip and raining down bruises. I'm flying backwards, crashing into the dumpster along the wall. Growling, I vamp out and catch a kick meant for my head. Twisting her ankle, my foot connects with her knee and she hisses with the pain, stumbling away from me when I let go of her. I follow. Smashing my fist into her face, seeing blood spray across my hand. She blocks, gets a punch in that knocks me back a step. I lean away, missing another blow and catching her wrist. Muscles roll and I hear tendons pop, jerking her arm tightly behind her, my other hand catching a fistful of hair.

I can hear her heart pounding inside her body and see the blood pulsing in her neck a few inches away from my fangs. It's almost over. I'm still expecting a kick or a head butt, she never gives up. She's wounded now. Because she didn't understand. Didn't understand that she doesn't know the real me.

Buffy isn't the deal. Faith is the deal. This is just supposed to be fun. It's not. That stops me from sinking my fangs into her neck, still holding her tightly, pressing her against the brick wall to trap her. Part of me is waiting for the familiar passion, the lust, to take hold at the proximity of our bodies. I can smell her shampoo and the vanilla lotion she's fond of. I know every curve of her body like I know my own. This should be arousing. Exciting. I should want her. I don't. The fire's gone.

Her blood is calling to me. I can kill her. I should kill her. Part of me wants it. Wants her blood pouring down my throat, making up for the broken heart she left in her wake. For treating me like an animal. The image of her lifeless, drained body slumped against the dumpster has a certain appeal. I can see the funeral. No one will be there but Harris, Willow, and the kid sister. Her own father probably won't have time to come. I didn't get to attend her first funeral. It had been daylight. That brings more memories. Of Glory, of that summer with Dawn. Dawn.

_Promise me that you'll kill me too._

I always keep my promises.

Letting go of the Slayer, I shove her viciously against the brick, turn and run from the alley. This wasn't in the brochure. I wasn't supposed to be running away. I was supposed to be draining her, ripping her throat open, tearing her apart. The bloodlust was gone, fading into the nothingness of me. What's happening to me? I couldn't kill Dawn. I couldn't kill Buffy. I'm still pathetic. I'm still the pathetic vampire I was. Even my rage is dull. I came here to kill and I couldn't.

A fledging crosses my path. His dust floats to the ground after I rip his head from his shoulders, snarling like the animal I am. A sick, impotent animal. The forest closes around me. I'm clutching my head, trying to sort through the tangled thoughts and emotions. Something is very wrong.

Sinking to the ground, I'm struggling to remember why I'm here. What am I doing? There are only fragments just beyond my grasp. Fear slips, icy and biting, down my spine as I realize I'm losing myself. Losing my sanity to the emptiness the soul should have filled. Have I lost my soul somehow? Did William escape the confused wreck I have become?

I hate this. I hate what I've become. I hate myself. More than I hate Dru, more than I hate Angel. There are no words for the depths of self-loathing I have discovered. I'm trapped in it, drowning in it. Breathing it in, feeling it burn like acid. I have wrapped myself in lies. Playing at being a man. Playing at being a vampire.

I am still weak.

* * *

Buffy limped home, tired and frightened. She found Faith and Dawn working on a batch of brownies in the kitchen. Xander and Willow were laughing at a joke she hadn't heard. Seeing them smiling was painful.

"Buffy?" Willow saw her first, her eyes widening as she took in the bruises on her face and the limp. "What happened?"

"Spike happened." She winced as she eased herself onto one of the stools. "Could you get me a couple ice packs? He did a number on my knee and shoulder." She had lost most of her range of movement in her right arm, holding it against her chest tightly. Her knee was still screaming.

"You should have told me you where you were going," Faith said angrily. "You could have gotten killed."

"I've beaten him before."

"He's a large pile of dust now, right, Buff? Please tell me you killed the bastard." Xander pressed one of the ice packs against her knee, carefully lifting her leg onto another stool to elevate the injury.

Buffy shook her head. "He had me. All he had to do was bite. I couldn't have stopped him. But he didn't. Just ran off."

"Maybe he doesn't really want to kill you." Dawn's voice was hopeful but subdued. She had been quiet for several days, lost in her own thoughts.

"I think we're past any cuddly feelings toward the vampire, Dawn. You need to get over it. He's not the Spike we knew. Something's happened to him. He's different." Buffy rubbed her temples, head aching from his fists.

"Maybe we should find out what happened to him. Did Giles ever figure out where he's been?"

"No." Willow shook her head. "He dropped off the map four years ago after he left Sunnydale. There's nothing. The only person who knows what happened is Spike. And I don't think he's up for friendly conversation."

"Willow. I need you to do a disinvite spell." Buffy sighed. "I never did it. After he left."

"I'll get right on it. I have the supplies at home."

"Thanks, Will." She glanced around the room at the concerned faces. "I'm sorry most of my exes try to kill us all. I have really tragic taste in men."

Faith swung her jacket over her shoulders, "Don't worry, B. I'll get the bastard." She started toward the back door.

"Faith." Buffy shook her head. "Don't make the same mistake I did. Wait for me. A few days and I'll be good as new. He can't take both of us." She paused, waiting for her to return to the group. "I was stupid. I shouldn't have gone alone."

"Damn right." Faith glared at her coldly for a moment before she relented and returned to her seat.

"We'll get him. Soon. Just wait." Buffy felt like crying. Felt like breaking down. She had to be strong. She was the Slayer and she carried the weight of the world, of everything on her shoulders. But Faith was a Slayer and some of the weight was hers to bear. It was hard to remember that. "I need you to kill him, Faith. I can't do it."

"Buffy?" The question may have come from anyone in the room.

"He knows me. Knows how I fight, my moves. He knows me better than anyone. I can't beat him." Buffy smiled sadly. "I need you."

Faith was silent, her inscrutable eyes dark with emotion and something akin to pride. For the first time since she had arrived in Sunnydale, she relaxed, leaning against the counter and smiling. "It's cool, B."

* * *

I'm tired. Weary of life. Weary of my own confusion and pain. I wasn't healing. Nothing was getting better or easier or lighter. The weight of the world was driving me to the ground. I would be crushed, destroyed. Why had I come back here? Muscles ached, nerves fired gunshots through my body when I tried to move.

The trees were whispering above my head. Spilling the secrets of the earth and stars. Were the stars singing? Was I supposed to name them? Where was Dru? Miss Edith. I could ask Miss Edith. When had I gone insane? There was nothing left. Just an empty hole. An empty soul. Drifting away into madness. Fear screamed, fury raged. I was crawling through the leaves, branches whipping my face and arms as I fought Mother Nature herself. Every step was a battle. Every day a war. Fighting for my soul and my sanity. I was losing. What was left for me?

Promises. All I had were the promises I had made. I could fulfill them. Then I could disappear. Fade away. Burn to dust and finally be at peace. Just keep my promises. Kill the girl. Protect the Key. Simple. Keep it simple.

William hid, terrified by the madness inside. The demon pulled forward, struggling to survive, to live. Clinging tooth and nail to anything that would lead me away from a dusty end. Not hope; there was no hope for me. Not redemption; it didn't exist. Just life. Just another moment of being. The taste of rabbit blood in my mouth, down my throat, was sickening. I don't know how long I've been in the forest, wandering, starving, hiding from the sun and the eyes of God. Forever. It feels like forever. I struggle to my feet and take to the night, my face a mask of animal hostility and desperation. Kill the girl. It meant death and peace. Just kill the girl.

I can smell her moving through the darkness. Everything else in the world is lost to me but the onslaught of smells washing over me. Dirt, water, rotting leaves beneath the underbrush. Every smell pulls me forward. Musky; it reminds me of the magnolia trees I left behind in New Orleans a lifetime ago. There she was. Vanilla was far away. Lavender was long gone. Concentrate on the Magnolia. I can hear the sound of the ocean as I near the docks. Waves lap the shore, salt filled air stinging my nose. Keep moving. Foot after foot. Get the girl. Kill the girl. My fangs cut into my lips, blood dripping down my chin. There was screaming inside my skull.

Away from the docks. Away from life and light and safety. I'm following her along the coastline. Vanilla is no longer there. Lost behind me in the forest. Looking for me, searching for me with death in her hands. Trees clear and I see her. Magnolia. She's beautiful in the moonlight. Pale and dark. Like Dru. Does she hear the trees whispering? I can hear them. Chattering like old ladies. Gossiping. There's the vampire. The one with the chip and the soul. He's come back for his beating, to carry his sin. Back for his death. He's going to kill the girl. Kill the girl. All the voices will go away if I can kill the girl. Things will be simple again.

I'm flying through the air. I see her hair tumble across her shoulders as she turns around. Dark eyes widen. The stake comes up too late and I've wrapped my arms around her, crashing into the ground and rolling down the rocky beach. I'm locked in a deadly embrace, breathing in the scent of her hair, her body. Her blood is pounding inside her. I can smell it. Hear it. Surrounded by whispers and waves, we plunge into the cold water.

My hands are around her neck, forcing her under the water, eyes blurred in the darkness and by my own madness. She's kicking against me, clawing my arms and hands. Trying to escape. Trying to break my promise. I have to keep my promise. I have to kill the girl.

She's still. Magnolia lies quiet in the dark waters beneath me. I've done it. Someone is happy. A little girl in red galoshes with dark, evil eyes and a Cheshire Cat smile.

William is screaming with rage and pain, wrenching the demon out of control. My hands pull out of the water and I'm staring down at her pale, lifeless face. Pain burns through me like lightning, ripping me apart. I'm clawing through the water, pulling her weight up from the depths and into my arms. Half crawling, half dragging myself and her body back to the shore. I'm panicking now, pushing her dark hair away from her face. I'm a vampire. I don't breathe.

I can breathe, William shouts inside my head. I do it all the time. I smoke, I breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. I lift her chin, pressing my lips against hers, cold, lifeless. Breathe out. Nothing. Again. Breath out. Wait. Again. There's sound. Something inside her. Water rises in her throat and she's choking. I can hear her heart beating in her chest. Bringing her back to me. Back to life. Water is pouring over me. I'm holding her tightly against my chest, sobbing into her hair. Begging for anything to take away my life. A stake. The sun. Anything.

"Spike." Her voice is hoarse, harsh in the night air.

"Had to," I mutter incoherently. "Had to kill the girl. Promised I would kill the girl."

"What are you talking about?" She's holding her throat protectively. I can see the marks of my hands on her skin. Sweet Magnolia. In my arms, shivering and full of life. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm nothing. There's nothing inside of me." My eyes are closed. The whispering of the trees is fading. I am a void. I am emptiness. I am the darkness of evil and death. In my arms, Magnolia, she is life and living. She is not empty. She doesn't pull away from me, staying in my embrace, shivering in my arms.

"Spike." She sounds lost and small. Not afraid. Magnolia isn't afraid. "What happened to you?"

"Spark. The spark. It burns." I'm choking on the words. "Save me. Please."

"What?"

"Save me. I'm nothing. I'm a monster. Save me."

"How?"

"Save me." There is nothing else left in me. No words. No voices. Nothing but the scent of Magnolia and the ocean. Am I holding her or is she holding me?

"Spike. Get up. We have to get out of here." Magnolia is lifting me. Pulling me back to the trees and the darkness of the forest. "Tell me where to go, Spike. Tell me where you live."

I'm mumbling directions. Right. Left. Forward. She is warm. Burning into my arm, searing my chest with her heat and life. Full of life. Heart beating. Pulling me through the darkness, lifting me from the void of nothingness swallowing me. William has the lead. He is strong and in control. Leading her through the woods, answering her prompts. How did he become so strong?

Leaves change to concrete and tar. My feet are dragging, brain disengaged. I'm spinning. Falling. She's opening a door and light stings my eyes. Pulling me through the threshold, she pushes me against one of the walls, leaving me to close the door behind us. Knees buckle and I sink to the ground, finally noticing my wet clothes.

"Spike? Spike. Come back to me, Spike." Magnolia is shaking me. I want to bury myself in her scent, her life. I'm still so lost. She's helping me to my feet again, across the room to the bed. Letting me fall. Falling. There's nothing but darkness to greet me. Before it swallows me down, I try to smile. I've gone mad. No more mind games. No more mind.

* * *

"Giles. Please tell me you have good news." Buffy twisted the phone cord around her wrist. It was noon. Faith hadn't come home.

"I'm afraid not." Giles sounded upset. Very upset. "A new Slayer has been called. Faith is dead."

Buffy sunk to the floor, clutching the phone tightly. "No. This isn't. This can't be. I can't. I can't lose another one." Dawn hurried to her side and they clung to each other. "This is all my fault," she whispered into the receiver. "I let her go out. It should have been me. I should have stopped him."

"It's not your fault, Buffy." Dawn gently took the phone from her sister's hand, whispering goodbye to Giles and hanging it up.

"It's not fair. She didn't get to...I didn't get to."

Dawn rocked her sister quietly, stroking her hair and murmuring comforting words through her own tears. Buffy would be next. She hoped Spike would remember her request. She couldn't live without her sister again. Wouldn't do it.

"Faith?" Willow clutched Xander's hand, knuckles white.

Shaking her head sadly, Dawn kept her hold around her sister's slender frame. "She's dead. Another Slayer has been called."

"Do you think he'll come after us next?" Xander put his arm around Willow, trying to comfort her.

"He will." Buffy looked up, eyes red from her tears. "And he'll die. He is going to pay for this." There was silence in the Summers home. The silence of grief and loss. And hatred.


	7. Faith

**Faith**

There's a light just beyond my reach. Something warm and welcoming. Am I dead? Am I finally free? A scent catches my attention. Magnolias. Disjointed memories return in a flood of pain. I'm confused. Where am I? What happened? Insanity beckons, promising sweet release from something terrible. I have done something terrible. I have killed.

William is there inside of me. I can feel him pulling me out of the dark, out of the quicksand sucking me under. I open my eyes slowly, seeing sunlight filtering in through the blinds. There is warmth at my side.

Stiffly, I turn my head and see her lying beside me. Dark hair fans out beneath her, one hand tucked under her chin. She looks like an angel. Magnolia. _Faith_. The memories fall into place and I roll away from her, crashing to the floor and scrambling away, crab-like, from the bed. Horrified, I see the bruises on her face. My fingerprints on her neck. Her heartbeat sounds loud and steady in my ears. She's alive. How can she be alive?

A moment of clarity strikes through my madness. Faith was alive. I was fucked. A one-way ticket to eternal torment was coming my way from a cute little cherub in red galoshes. Pain. Torment. I couldn't keep my promises. I hadn't saved Dawn. I couldn't kill Faith. How had I gotten here? Demon Spike whispered that she was sleeping; I could finish the job. Keep my promise. She would be gone and I wouldn't have to suffer anymore.

No. That was the soul. William the Bloody Awful Poet. There had been enough death, enough hatred, enough rage. They tear me between them, a game of tug-of-war as each struggles for control. Who am I? Am I Spike, the vampire shmuck? Or William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, who can't learn to keep his mouth shut and stay away from the bints. Then there's William Davis, melancholy bartender and feature writer for the Sunnydale Press. Which one is real? Which one is me?

Beyond me, the world is far away and I can't focus my eyes. I'm insane. Trapped within my head and my pain. How had I let my life fall apart? Thoughts are broken. I try to snatch them out of the fog, hooking them together, and searching for coherence and rationality. What happened to me?

The answer is simple, obvious. I lost hope. Dark memories of rain and desperate cries to the weeping sky come to mind. The day the little girl had offered me a deal. That was it. The moment I said yes, committing myself to one last murder. My hope had died. Struck down by the understanding that having a soul did not make me a better man. It didn't make me a man at all. Just a freak.

What kind of man was I? What kind of demon? The war for dominance inside me stilled for a moment as both the soul and the demon considered the question. I had come across the country to kill and hurt the very people who had been the catalysts for my change. I blamed them for the return of my soul and the weight of my guilt. I hated them because I had lost everything of myself here in this town. Coming back to Sunnydale was supposed to answer my questions, end my searching for purpose and identity. It was supposed to save me.

Save me.

I didn't even know what that meant. Redemption had been dismissed years before as a fairytale and idle dream. There would be no atonement for a monster like me. I know that Angel believes in redemption, that he fights against himself and all that is evil to earn his deliverance. That was his purpose, his reason for being. Did I want that? Did I want to be redeemed? What kind of man did I want to be?

Gradually the hurricane in my head slows and stops. Words and ideas fall into place, stringing into lucid trains of thought. I have a choice. Having a soul means that I have a choice. I can be the kind of man I want to be. I could be a killer, letting my demon out to play. I could be a softhearted poet, giving the reins to William. Or I could choose neither of them. I could be a good man. It's my choice now.

The hope I lost so long ago flickers, takes hold, and begins to burn. I have been living in the past, struggling to survive the now, praying that there would be no future. In amazement, I realize that I no longer feel like two people trapped in the same body. Demon versus soul. I can't destroy my demon, can't beat him back and into submission. I can't shut out my soul and forget the tenderness, the gentleness, of William. The past is something that I can never change or dismiss, but it does not define me. My past is not what I am, it is not my identity.

Returning to the present, I finally look around and recognize the two room flat that had become my new home. It's bare; the only furniture was what had come with the lease. A bed. A lamp. There was a small table beneath the shuttered window. Except for the clothing hanging in the closet and the laptop on the table there is no indication that anyone lives here. I vaguely remember giving Faith directions.

My limbs are weak as I stand up, one hand against the wall to steady myself. I don't know how much time I have before the Cheshire bitch realizes Faith is still alive and comes to drag me into hell. It doesn't matter anymore. She'll come and it will finally be over. I'll get what I deserve.

This whole crazy world revolves around cause and effect. Push and pull. Walk the edge, toe the line; what goes around comes around and this is my stop. End of the line for Vampire with a Soul Redux. Like most sequels, this one didn't live up to the original. The script was poor, the dialogue contrived, and the hero hadn't been a hero at all. I was no Angel. For the first time in more than a hundred years, I wish I could be. Weight lifts from my shoulders as I move through the apartment, savoring my newfound peace. I'm facing the music, owning up to what I have done and what I deserve. I am not weak, not anymore.

I warm a glass of pig blood and sip it slowly, staring out the window at the brick walls of the neighboring apartments. Each one is a home and a haven for someone else. The place they live, dream, love. Where they cry and escape from their fear. The only place they can close the door and put away the masks that keep them separated from the rest of their species and eternally alone. A shell to keep them safe and secure. Humanity is frightening in its cruelty, savage in its inescapable consequences, and breathtaking in its beauty. I feel it and am in awe. Of the people living each day, getting up and moving on; those who don't allow the misery to destroy them. Life is a driving force, powerful and relentless, that no amount of demons or evil can ever conquer.

Filling another glass with cool water, I return to the bedroom and carefully sit down beside the bed. I don't touch her, afraid of being burnt by her life and the possibility of being attacked.

"Faith." My voice is loud in the silence. "Faith."

Her eyelashes flutter for a moment before they fly open and she's sitting up, moving away from me, tense and ready for a fight. I hold out the glass of water as a peace offering.

"I thought maybe." I try to smile. "Your throat might be sore." The irony almost makes me laugh. My hands made those marks and now I'm trying to ease the damage. She watches me uneasily for a moment before she reaches for the glass, drinking hesitantly. I back away, leaning against the table and trying to avoid the pinpricks of sunlight that slip through the blinds.

She clears her throat, voice hoarse from sleep and injury. "Bastard."

"Yeah." I turn away from her, picking my duster off of the floor and folding it absently. I don't want it anymore. It's not me.

"I only let you live because of Dawn." She informs me, placing the empty glass on the bed and curling her legs against her chest.

"How's that?"

"She doesn't want you dead. Maybe the only person in the whole world who wouldn't be glad to fit you into an ashtray. She cares about you."

"She's like her mum." It's the best compliment I can think of for Dawn. One that I know would please her.

"Why aren't I dead?" Her voice has an edge. I'm still surprised how expressive that voice is. Husky, rich; everything that she is comes across in her words. Half a dozen emotions crowd together, tumbling out over her lips.

"I don't want to kill you." I stare down at my duster for a long moment before I toss in onto the table and move to the closet. Everything black has to go. I can't wear it anymore. It's the color of death and I have seen enough death. She is silent, her dark eyes following my movements intently. "Not anymore. I came here to kill you, true. But I can't. I have enough blood on my hands."

She laughs with disbelief. "You're a vampire. What do you care how many people you kill?"

"Angel cares." I glance over one shoulder to gauge her reaction.

"Angel has a soul." She frowns for a moment, turning her head to look at me askew. "You're not going to give me some bullshit about having a soul, are you? That's impossible."

"Crazy, yes. Impossible, no." I shrug as I pull a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt out off of the shelves. "I'm going to change. You can leave if you want. I'm not going to keep you here."

"Like you could." Her words are arrogant but she makes no move to leave.

Shutting the bathroom door behind me, I shed the dirty black jeans and ripped shirt I'm wearing. I climb into the shower to wash dirt and blood off of my arms. Rabbit blood. Have I been eating rabbits? I can't remember. Sighing, I close my eyes against the stream of hot water, feeling it wash away days worth of insanity and darkness. My mind is almost clear and the madness is fading away.

I've given her enough time to search the entire flat and make half a dozen phone calls. Half of me expects Buffy to be waiting, stake in hand, as I dry off and get dressed. Toweling my hair vigorously, I open the door and see Faith sitting on the bed, arms still holding her legs against her chest. She hasn't moved.

"Are you alright?" I ask, tossing the towel over one shoulder and running my hands through my hair to corral the unruly curls. I add my dirty clothes to the pile of things to leave behind forever. "All I have is blood. You can wear something of mine if you need to change." Her tank top is ripped in several places and there are streaks of mud on the leather pants she's wearing.

"Are you fucking with me?" Her eyes narrow with suspicion. "Tell me the truth. You weren't just a few fries short of a happy meal last night, you were completely out of your mind. Psycho. Wheel's turning, hamster's dead. What the hell is going on?"

"I made a mistake." Four words summed up my existence in a trivial phrase that I find both humbling and appalling.

"Not going to argue with that. Details would be appreciated." In her voice, I can hear frustration and confusion liberally laced with hostility.

Facing her, I try to keep my mind focused long enough to decide what to tell her. Simple is better. "I got my soul back four years ago. Never planned on coming back here until some Big Bad playing dress-up offered to take the bleedin' chip out of my head. The catch? I had to kill someone for it. I said yes. The bint wanted you dead."

"Why?"

"Said you betrayed them. I didn't ask too many questions. Evil little chit spooked the hell out of me." I move back to the closet and pulling out my duffle bag. Everything I own fits in this bag.

"Getting my ass out of this town. I can't kill you. Have to face the music sometime." I glance over my shoulder. "If I stay, I'll be having a nice conversation with a wooden stake or that ball of joy overhead."

"You should die." Bitter. Angry.

"No. I shouldn't." I turn slowly, watching her expression. "I don't deserve death. I deserve something much worse than that." That surprises her. "I'm not running off into the sunset to live happily ever after. I'm going back so that bitch can make good on her threats and damn me to eternal torment. Because I can't kill you. Because I won't." Firm in my conviction, I continue packing, pulling my Timberlands out of the back of the closet and tossing the black motorcycle boots into the pile of my past. "That's the deal I made. That's what I deserve."

"What about Dawn?"

"What about her?" My voice sounds strained in my ears. "She's better off without me."

"Yeah. At least say goodbye this time."

"Without getting up close and personal with a very brassed off Slayer? I don't think so." The laptop goes into the bag and I'm done. My entire life in one duffle bag.

"Spike." She hesitates, doubt ringing in her voice. "Was I dead? I think I was dead."

"Yeah."

"Then you did kill me. Like you were supposed to. Assuming you're not lying and someone out there really wants me dead."

"I'm pretty sure she wanted you six feet under and pushing up daisies, luv. The not ever coming back variety. Although that doesn't mean much in Sunnydale." I slip on my boots and swing the strap of the duffel over my shoulder. "There's covered parking with sewer access behind the building. Don't worry, I won't come back. There's nothing left for me here."

She's fidgeting. For a moment I wonder if she's stalling, waiting for Buffy to show up and kick the door in. "You asked me to save you," she finally blurts out. "Last night. You asked me to save you."

"You did, Faith." I smile and take a few tentative steps toward her. When she doesn't pull away, I continue until I'm close enough to touch her.

"I can't even save myself." There's pain in her voice and I'm struck by the vulnerability in her eyes. "I thought I could fix it if I went to jail. If I was punished for what I did. But I'm still...I..." She stops and looks up at me, searching my face.

Her hair is cool and smooth, curling around my fingers as I push it away from her face, tucking a single lock behind her ear. Warm skin touches my palm and I'm amazed by the raw emotion in her eyes. There is so much in them that I recognize. Pain, fear, desperation. She reminds me of the man I once was, the poet who wanted to be accepted, to be loved. We're on the same road, trapped in the same nightmare of finding something to live for. A reason to be.

"Help me." The shame in her voice makes me wonder if she's ever asked anyone for help.

"You have to keep looking." I pull my hand away and start toward the exit that leads to the central courtyard, kept relatively safe by a row of trees. Her voice stops me in the doorway.

"Looking for what?"

I glance back at her once, trying to memorize the fall of her hair and the curve of her face. A smile spreads across my face. "Faith."

* * *

There was nothing but silence left in the apartment. Faith stayed curled up on the bed for a long time, thinking and staring at the bare walls. She should have hated him, should have driven a stake through his black heart. After all, he had killed her. She hadn't even seen him coming until he leapt from the bushes, tackling her and pushing her under the water's surface. At first she'd fought him, her instinct for survival overriding everything else. But there had been a moment of peace and acceptance. Knowing it was over. The harshness of the world and her own pain would finally be gone. She would be free. She'd stopped fighting back and just let it happen. She'd wanted it to happen.

Her throat ached and her sinuses were still burning from the water that had filled her nose and mouth. The world had come crashing back. Disoriented, she'd been shocked to find herself wrapped tightly in her murderer's arms as he sobbed. _Save me_. His voice echoed in her head, broken and altogether too human. Why hadn't she staked him? Because she knew what it was like to be broken.

Slowly uncurling, she eased herself off of the bed and looked around. The duster was crumpled on the table. It was still new and heady with the scent of leather. Picking it up carefully, she slipped her arms through the sleeves and looked down. It fell to her ankles, draping from her shoulders like a cape. Smiling, she moved through the apartment, noticing that there were no signs of life except for the clothes he left in a pile on the bedroom floor. All black.

Sunlight poured through the front door. Stepping out into the day, she blinked against the brightness and took a deep, fortifying breath. The complex was in the older part of town, only a few blocks away from Buffy's house. She'd be furious to know he had been this close the entire time. Why the hell did a vampire have an apartment anyway?

Lost in thought, Faith made her way slowly through the streets of Sunnydale. She wasn't sure if she should lie to the Scoobies. Tell them that Spike was blowing in the wind right now. Her stomach rumbled hungrily and she wished she had worn a watch.

As she started across the backyard of the Summers residence, she felt older. Death aged you. Maybe that was why Buffy seemed to be twenty-five going on fifty. She'd done this twice. Did it get easier? Faith didn't want to find out.

Quietly, she let herself in the back door and saw that the kitchen was empty. Her first priority was finding the gang and letting them know she was back among the living. With Spike gone, she didn't have to stay in Sunnydale anymore. She could go wherever she wanted. In California at least. Damn parole officers. Buffy's voice wafted out from the direction of the living room. Probably formulating attack plans. All work and no play. Faith moved through the house silently, standing in the doorway and waiting to be noticed. The gang was all there, crowded around a map of Sunnydale while Willow sprinkled some sort of powder over the paper.

"Are you sure dead bodies show up with locator spells?" Xander sounded tired. "Maybe we should just head out there and look. You said you were checking the forest by the docks."

"And if he dumped her in the ocean? She could be halfway down the coast by now." Buffy's answer was terse. Full battle mode.

"There. It's done." Willow squinted at the map and sighed. "But I don't think it worked."

"Why not?"

"Because that dot should be Faith's body. And it's here." She pointed at the map. "That's your house, Buffy."

"Oh. Is there something else we could try? Another spell?"

"You could turn around." Faith smiled, enjoying the looks of shock on their faces. "Since I happen to be standing right here. Not polite to talk about people in front of them, you know." They were too stunned to respond, taking in the bruises on her face and mud covering her clothes. It took them another moment to place the long leather jacket she was wearing.

Dawn was the first one to break the silence, moving forward and giving her a quick hug. "Are you alright? Giles said another Slayer was called. He must have been wrong."

"Nope. Pulled a Buffy." Faith grinned. "This is Faith version two-point-oh. Back from the dead for a few nights only." She felt more relaxed than she had in a long time. "Come on guys, don't look so happy to see me."

Willow visibly shook herself out of shock and blinked a few times, rubbing her eyes just in case. "What happened? Can I get you anything? Water? Food? Is that Spike's jacket?" The familiar rambling was comforting.

"Yeah. He left it behind." Faith shrugged the leather off of her shoulders. "Seemed like such a waste. It's brand new." She handed it to Dawn, noticing the grateful look in the girl's eyes. "Thought you might want it."

"She doesn't." Buffy glared at Dawn.

"I do." Dawn folded the duster over her arms. "I don't care if he did go all psycho killer. I'm not going to pretend I don't care just because that's what you do."

"I'm not pretending."

"Whatever. You still have his old jacket in a box in the back of your closet." Dawn tossed her hair over her shoulder and sat down, holding the leather firmly against her. "It's only fair that I get this one."

"Fine. Just tell me he's good and dusty this time. Faith?"

"Sorry, B. No can do. I'm the only one who died." Faith pulled a leaf from her hair, impulsively deciding against a lie.

"About that?" Xander almost raised his hand. "How is it that you're all with the breathing and walking around again?"

"That crazy ass vampire brought me back. After he drowned me. Can I take you up on that offer of food, Will? All Spike had was blood." Faith smiled gratefully as Willow headed off toward the kitchen. Sitting down carefully, she began to examine the tiny cuts and bruises on her arms. Their tumble down the beach had done more damage than she'd previously thought.

"Am I the only one who's a little confused? Spike killed you. Spike saved you. Spike took you home?"

"Spike killed me. Spike saved me. I took Spike home. Poor guy was completely round the bend. Full stop, train derailed. One way ticket to Crazyville." Faith made a few finger circles around her ear and pulled a crazy face for emphasis. "But he's gone now. Left town."

"For how long?" Buffy's voice was hard. "Until he decides to kill you for good?"

"I don't think he'll come back."

"Why didn't you kill him? It sounds like you had plenty of chances. Did you sleep with him instead?"

"Chill, B. Vampires don't get me hot. That's your department."

Willow hurried back into the room, handing Faith a plate with a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. "I made you a sandwich. I hope that's okay."

"Awesome, Will. You totally rock."

"Faith was just explaining why William the Bloody is still among the undead." Buffy crossed her arms over her chest, scowling fiercely.

"I did it for Dawn," Faith answered simply. Buffy's head snapped to the side, eyes wide as she searched her sister's face for an answer.

"Dawn...what is she talking about?"

"I might have said that I didn't want him dead." Dawn looked down at her hands. "And he saved my life, Buffy. A week ago. In the tunnels, there was a vampire and he saved me. He seemed so lost Buffy. Like he didn't really know what was going on-"

"Wait. Just wait." Buffy shook her head in disbelief. "You saw him? Why didn't you tell me? And what were you doing in the tunnels? Alone? You are so grounded."

"You can't ground me anymore. Mom." Dawn rolled her eyes.

"Fine. I'll just break a few bones."

"I don't believe this!" Buffy exploded. "He comes back to town after telling the whole world he's going to kill both of us. He almost kills me and he manages to drown you. And you're all sitting here thinking it's just fine that he's still out there! Have you all lost your minds?" She turned back to Faith. "I know that doing the right thing really isn't important to you but is it too much to ask that you kill one vampire? You're a Slayer. A Vampire Slayer. Sacred calling...ring any bells?"

Faith shrugged. "I know something else that's important to you, B. Having a soul."

"And?"

"Spike has a soul now. He told me."

"And you believed him? You're even more stupid than I thought you were."

"You didn't see him." Faith finished off her sandwich calmly. Dying made little things like Buffy temper tantrums less important.

"This is insane!" Buffy stormed out of the living room and stomped up the stairs. The slam of her bedroom door shook the pictures hanging on the walls, echoing in the silence left behind.

"I've got to agree with Buffy. How do you know he wasn't lying?" Xander asked. "I mean, he is...evil. And evil tends to lie."

"Just a vibe, I guess. Besides, we have bigger fish to fry. Spike was just the hitman. Told me some woman sent him after me." Faith set her plate and empty glass on the coffee table carefully. "But the whole debriefing thing is going to have to wait until I have a shower. I've still got sand where the sun don't shine."

"I'll call Giles. Let him know you're alive." Willow moved toward the phone.

Faith reached out to stop her. "Not yet. I think...I think that maybe it's better if they think I'm dead."

"Why?"

"I'm not exactly the golden child, Will. One less thing for the Council to worry about. No more rogue Slayer to sully their institution."

"But Faith-"

"It's a clean slate for me," Faith cut her off. "A fresh start. I can have a new life without them breathing down my neck and waiting for me to fuck up. Please. Just don't."

Willow hesitated, finally nodding her head and sitting back down. "Alright. I understand. Does that mean you're going to leave?"

"Haven't thought that far. I'm still kind of weirded out by the whole being dead thing. And I hope y'all don't think I'm being rude, but I've gotta have that shower now." She headed up the stairs, leaving them to talk as they may about Spike and her and what to do now.

"Do you think he really has a soul?" Dawn whispered, clutching the duster hopefully.

"I don't know, Dawnie." Willow glanced at Xander. "But if someone sent him to kill Faith, we have to find out who and why."

"Does this mean there are three Slayers now?"

"I guess," Willow answered. "Giles did say another Slayer had been called. Just like that time with Buffy."

"They really should fix that loophole." Xander moved to the couch and sat down beside Willow. "Or just set up an assembly line and make lots of them. A whole army of Slayers. All it takes is a little bit of death, CPR, and voila!"

"Will she be coming here?"

"Probably. It's still the Hellmouth. Although with Buffy here, Sunnydale doesn't really need another Slayer."

"Maybe Buffy can retire now. You know, go back to school and stuff," Dawn suggested thoughtfully. She frowned as a new thought crossed her mind, "What should we tell Giles about Spike?"

"If we tell him that he's still undead the Council will probably try to hunt him down." Willow blew a stray lock of hair out of her face, resting her chin on her hand as she considered their options. "Of course, Buffy may do that herself."

"We should probably tell him."

"What about the soul?"

Xander shook his head. "If he has a soul. Big if. We don't know if he was telling the truth. Buffy's right. We can't trust him anymore."

"Then we have to find out. If he has a soul." Dawn put on her best resolve face. "There has to be a way. A spell or something."

Willow eyed the black leather in Dawn's lap. "There might be. I think I know where to look. I'll need something that belonged to him."

"His jacket." Dawn held up the duster.

"That should work. And if he was telling the truth about the soul then he was probably telling the truth about someone sending him to kill Faith."

"Research?" Xander grinned. "I'll go for donuts. Can't read old musty volumes without sugary goodness, can we?"

"I'll call Giles." Willow checked her watch. "It's only two in the morning there. Maybe I won't call him. It can wait until morning. Or evening." She shrugged and abandoned the phone call idea, instead digging out the laptop and plugging it in. "I've been working on a database of spells with some of the wiccans on campus and a few from covens across the country. I'm sure someone will have an idea or two."

"Should I get Buffy?" Xander hesitated, halfway out of the room.

"Let her cool off, Xan," Dawn advised. "She's having a hard time with the whole Spike kicking her ass episode."

"Does she really have his old duster in her closet?"

"I found it a couple of years ago when I was borrowing some shoes."

Willow glanced up from the computer screen. "Why'd she keep it?"

"I think it was because it reminded her of him." Dawn stroked the leather in her lap gently. "She never said anything but I think she missed him. A lot. She was totally pissed at him. And hurt. But I think she still hoped he'd come back some day."

"Guess she got her wish. Sunnydale style. Do you think she'll be okay? She seems to be taking it pretty hard." Willow paused her search to wait for an answer.

"She'll be fine. She's Buffy. Big strong Buffy." Dawn didn't sound convinced.


	8. Squaring A Circle

**Squaring A Circle**

At night, California disappeared into a world of shadows inhabited by creatures who could see in the dark and move with inhuman silence. The noise of man hushed, falling to a low roar in the night. One bungalow style home still blinked into the darkness, windows glowing brightly from within. Willow was staring intently at the screen of the laptop, scribbling incantations and lists of ingredients. Finally she leaned back with a sigh, rubbing her tired eyes. "I think I have it. I'll have to pick up some supplies tomorrow morning but it should be able to tell us if Spike has a soul."

"Why are we even bothering with this? He's lying." Buffy didn't bother to look up from the book she was reading. "And all we know if he is telling the truth is that something that looks like a woman took the chip out of his head in exchange for Faith's life. Not helpful."

"Buffy's right." Dawn pulled her hair back into a ponytail so it would stop getting caught in the worn pages of the ancient codex she was attempting to decipher. "It could be a witch. Or someone with a glamour spell. It could be like the Hansel and Gretel demon. Spike didn't give Faith enough information."

Faith was trying not to fidget too much. She hated research but there wasn't really another option. At least she'd gotten all the mud out of her hair and Dawn had lent her some cotton pajamas to lounge around in. Not her usual style of clothing but they were comfortable and, right now, Faith was all about comfort. "He didn't necessarily say that it looked like a woman."

"He referred to it as she and her. What else would he be talking about?" Buffy's voice was flat, still resonating with her anger and frustration.

"He said it liked to play dress up. Exact words."

"Again. Not exactly helpful."

"Wait." Willow glanced at Faith. "I think I see where you're going. There might be a difference to Spike. It's like Buffy speak. Only Spike speak."

Buffy narrowed her eyes at Willow. "Buffy speak?"

"You know, you sound like Buffy. The way you talk, twist words around. We all do it. Distinct speech patterns." She searched her mind for an example. "Remember how Giles and Wesley never really knew what you were saying? Words like wiggins and hootenanny."

"Hootenanny?"

"Well, that might have been Oz. But you know what I'm saying?"

"Will's right." Xander brushed bits of donut glaze off of his lap. "Like five by five. That's Faith's signature. Remember when she used to say that all the time and we could never figure out what it meant? I mean, was it some sort of subtle way of advertising her measurements? Or just a thing with fives?"

"And you're entirely lacking the conversational eccentricities?" Faith tossed a pencil at him playfully.

"Big words, Slayer. I think there were a couple with three syllables in there."

"And Xander used to call Angel dead boy. Spike calls him the Magnificent Poof. Or nancy-boy," Dawn added excitedly. "And there's salty goodness and sugary goodness."

"Gameface. It's not a word."

"Ubersuck."

"Big Bad."

"How about slayage? Or oogy? Not real words either."

"And butt-monkey. Don't forget that one."

"Okay. Okay." Buffy held up her hands. "We've established a sub-dialect thingy or whatever. How does this help us?"

"We just need to think like Spike. Maybe we're missing a clue."

"We're grabbing at straws, aren't we? Why didn't anyone tell me it was hopeless? Oh wait. I think I mentioned that two hours ago." Buffy slammed her book down on the table. "Maybe we just need to face the fact that Spike's a vampire. An evil vampire who apparently has David Copperfielded all of you."

"There's another one." Xander picked up a book, glancing at the cover. "Demons of the Far East. How far east are we talking? Just humor us, Buffster. We're brainstorming. Without the lightning strikes of inspiration of course."

"Fine." Buffy sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. "Let's all try to think like a crazy vampire. Not exactly a mind I want to get into. I saw that movie. In that way lies only badness."

"Think Spike." Willow tapped her pencil on the table.

"Happy meals with legs," Buffy blurted out. "People are Happy Meals with Legs. He said that."

"Ok. That's good. It's a start."

"Love's bitch," Buffy added. "When he was whining about Dru. And when he was hungry, he said he was peckish."

"I think that's a British thing. Like bloody hell and wanker," Dawn commented.

"And I so did not just hear those words coming out of your mouth Dawn." Buffy scowled at her disapprovingly. "All we have is a list of British insults. This is getting us nowhere."

"Amazing." Faith shook her head and laughed. "You boinked the guy for months and you don't even know him."

"It was a long time ago. How many guys even knew your name?"

"Touche."

"Damn straight."

Faith shrugged it off. "Whatever, B. You guys are thinking way too much anyway. It's simple. Big evil likes to play dress up. Who plays dress up?"

"You've been pretending to be a Slayer for years," Buffy snarked.

Faith ignored the jibe. "Little girls play dress up. And he called her little. Evil little chit."

Willow turned back to the laptop, keys tapping under her fingers. "I think you're right. Chit can refer to a young woman. Or a scrap of paper. According to this website anyway."

"So we've got a big bad who looks like a little girl. Or a piece of paper. Assuming that pieces of paper can't order vampires to kill people, that's gotta narrow it down to at least a couple hundred volumes."

"I only know of one. And it can't be her." Willow frowned. "Remember the Beast? Blocked out the sun in L.A."

Faith nodded. "Been there."

"He killed five totems, the Ra-tet. One of them was Mesektet, a very old, very evil entity. She looked like a little girl. It's in Rhinehardt's Compendium. Wesley sent me a copy for Hanukkah last year." Willow blushed and bowed her head toward the computer screen.

"Are we sure she's dead?"

"Pretty sure. I can't remember any other evil little girls. But if it's a glamour, it could look like anything. There aren't a lot of demons who can cast glamours. It's more of a natural defense for them. Like chameleons."

Buffy thought that over, chewing on the barrel of her pencil until she'd worn grooves in the shape of teeth marks. "Then it's probably magic. How hard would it be to take out the chip?"

"Without damaging Spike's brain? I don't know."

"We don't know he's not damaged. He sounds like a thundering looney to me," Xander said. "Maybe that's why he's been all weird. Chipectomy gone wrong."

"Buffy," Willow hesitated, her cheeks turning an even darker red. "I could have done it. I could have taken it out years ago."

"How many years? Before or after you went black eyed and veiny?"

"Before. I could have done it before you died even. The second time at least. But that's still more power than your average witch."

"And we're back to square one. Except that this thing has a fetish for little girls," Buffy paused a beat, reconsidering her words. "That sounded really bad."

Willow paled, her hands pausing over the keyboard. "And it's going to get worse."

"What are you talking about?"

"I got an email from Giles."

"Color me impressed, when did he join the internet generation?" Xander quipped.

"He says he can't call. His phones have been tapped and someone tried to kill him."

"What?"

"That's not the worst part, Buffy." Willow looked up with a worried expression on her face. "He says that the Council knew about Spike's chip. It happened three years ago. They've known the whole time that he didn't have a chip anymore. Spike's been in New Orleans for the last four years." Stunned silence filled the living room. "Giles is on his way to Sunnydale. The new Slayer should be here by Friday."

"I guess the new and improved Council isn't so improved." Dawn closed her book and leaned back from the table.

"Three Slayers. Gonna get crowded," Faith mused.

"You'll have to show her around, Faith."

"Why me? You're the head honcho around here, B. This is your town."

"I'm taking a vacation." Buffy smiled coldly. "It's a little late for Mardi Gras but I'll manage."

her fists tightly, Faith matched Buffy's glare. "You are not going after him. It's none of your business."

"I'm the Slayer. It's entirely my business. And since we obviously can't trust you to get the job done..." she trailed off deliberately, daring anyone to object.

"I won't let you."

"Try to stop me, Faith."

Faith stood up slowly. "If I have to break your fucking neck to do it. Stay out of this."

"You know you can't take me." They stood toe to toe, nose to nose, glaring at each other across the coffee table.

"Ladies." Xander tried to intervene. "I don't think there's any reason to go to blows over this. It's simple. Buffy stays. Faith goes. No worries."

"How does that solve the problem? She let him get away Xander!"

"And you're needed here, Buffy." Xander smiled apologetically at Faith. "She's not. Everyone thinks she's dead. They don't expect her to be here."

"She's not dead. What's wrong with telling them?"

"Other than the fact that we hate the Council and can't trust them. They knew about Spike and didn't tell us. Not a big warm fuzzy here." Xander touched Buffy's arm gently. "Besides, this way Faith has a clean break."

"What are you talking about?"

"A new life, B. One where people aren't still waiting to stab me in the back the second I turn around." Faith returned to her seat. "I'll go after him. If he tries to come back, I'll stop him. It's that simple."

"You've all lost your minds." Buffy shook her head with disgust. "Fine. Go after him. I don't care. But if I see either of you in this town again, it's over. Are we clear?" She glared down at Faith, seething with frustration.

"Crystal."

Buffy turned sharply and headed into the kitchen, slamming the teapot onto the stove and wrenching the dial to high. She didn't think the tea would help her relax, but it would at least get her out of the living room and away from Faith. Away from everyone who knew about all of her total failures. Sinking onto one of the stools, she put her head down on her hands and tried to take deep breaths.

"Pretty intense, huh?" Willow's voice was a comforting blend of false cheerfulness and concern. "We haven't had a Big Bad in a few years. Nice change."

Buffy looked up, resting her chin on her hands. "Here for the best friend pep talk?"

"That's kind of the point in being a best friend. It has its perks. Ice cream privileges, juicy gossip sessions. And lots of understanding." Willow smiled kindly as she took a seat at the island.

"This whole thing just has me on edge, Will. It's still so weird. And it's happened so fast. One minute he's trying to kill me, then he's run off again and Faith's gone all Angel on us."

"You noticed that too?"

"It reminds me of when I went to L.A. after Faith and had that huge blow-out with him. I couldn't believe he was protecting her. I didn't think she deserved it."

"And you don't think Spike deserves it?"

"Harder to answer. If he has a soul, however that happened, then maybe." Buffy sighed wearily. "It's just weird."

"Yeah." Willow leaned forward on her elbows, watching sympathetically. "You know that if you need someone to talk to. I'm here."

"I know. Thanks."

"Question?"

"Fire away."

"What makes you so angry about this whole Spike drama? More so than usual. I haven't seen you this upset in a long time."

Buffy was silent for a moment, thinking. The teapot began to whistle and she moved to turn off the burner, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard and the box of herbal tea. Steam curled up around the column of water as she filled the two cups. She watched Willow dump two teabags into the water and sat back down. "I think I'm angry because I don't dare hope."

"Hope? For what?"

"At first, that it wasn't true. That he wasn't really going to kill us. Or that it wasn't him. It couldn't be him." She stared down at the mup in her hands, swirling the tea bag slowly. "Then I wanted to hope that he was telling the truth, that he had a soul. That there had to be a good reason he was doing this. It wasn't his fault or he wasn't in control. I don't know. Maybe he was brainwashed or something."

"Or crazy?"

"Even crazy. Seeing him again. It hurt." Buffy shook her head sadly. "And he killed Faith. He killed her."

"But he brought her back."

"Also disturbing. But the worst part is that I think she's forgiven him." Buffy bit her lip, watching Willow's face carefully. "You have to be really strong to forgive something like that."

"Have you forgiven him? For the whole bathroom thing?"

Buffy nodded slowly. "It took a while but I think I have. That entire year was so ugly and painful. For everyone. It's hard to hold a grudge when everyone kinda fell apart and hurt everyone else."

"Do you think she shouldn't forgive him?" Willow sipped her tea, keeping her eyes on Buffy.

"No. That's up to her. It's just that," she stopped and took a deep breath. "If I can forgive Spike for what he did. For what he's done. Hurting me, coming here to kill me. Maybe kill all of us. Forgiving him is the easy part." She could see the surprise on her friend's face. "I think that's why I'm so angry. I shouldn't forgive him. I shouldn't ever forgive him."

"Why not?"

"What kind of person am I, Willow? I can forgive Spike...an evil, possibly soulless vampire, almost anything. Why can't I forgive Faith?"

"So this is the mad at yourself because you feel guilty type of anger."

"It's my fault she died. I sent her that direction. I suggested we split up. If it wasn't for me, she wouldn't have died." Buffy bit her lip dejectedly. "When Giles called, all I could think was that she died before I could tell her that I've forgiven her. That I wanted things to be different between us. Better."

"And not wanting her to go after Spike?"

"What if he tries to kill her again? What if he does? I can't let her die, Willow." Buffy finally took a sip of her tea, feeling the hot liquid burn down her throat. "I'm tired of losing my friends. I'm tired of my lovers trying to kill me. I'm tired of not knowing what to do with my life."

"What do you mean?"

"I work. I slay. But why? Why do I do any of it? I feel so lost. Why do I get up every morning? What is it that makes this whole thing worthwhile?"

"You mean like a higher purpose?"

She shrugged, not knowing the answer and not even knowing where to begin. "Angel has his redemption. Faith has a new life to look forward to. A clean slate. What am I doing?"

"You almost have your degree. A few more classes and you'll be done," Willow offered.

"Yeah. But I think I'm missing something. I'm not part of anything. I'm not connected."

"You have us."

Buffy smiled, reaching out to take Willow's hand. "And you're the best friends anyone could ask for. Really. I love you guys to death. I think I'm just hitting a mid-twenties life crisis. Maybe it's the biological clock thingy. Making my hormones all wonky."

"I think you just need a good night's sleep." Willow grinned and squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, Buffy. We'll figure this out. And Giles is coming back. Although that's usually a bad thing."

"He always brings an apocalypse. What kind of a guest does that?"

"Not a very nice one. Who do you think tried to kill him? Do you think it has to do with Spike?"

"I think I'll hedge my bets on this one and say it's all connected. That seems to be the case more often than not." She straightened her shoulders, feeling some of the tension slip away. Whether or not it was due to the tea, she'd probably never know. "Thanks, Will. I needed to get that off of my chest."

"That's what I'm here for. And for eating ice cream and cookies, of course. And research. I'm research girl. Or woman, as is more accurate."

"It's all gonna be okay." Buffy raised her mug to take another sip of tea. "Spike will have a soul and come back non-homicidal. Faith will find a nice young man and settle down to raise a family. You'll find a sweet and adorable witch to cuddle and make with the smoochies. Xander will finally make it down the aisle with a woman who isn't a demon and Dawn will grow up, have a brilliant career, and move far away from Sunnydale."

"And you?"

"I'll retire to a nice cottage by the ocean and never have to slay another vampire."

"Sounds nice."

"Doesn't it?"

* * *

"I'll be damned. Is that a smile?" Charlie tossed a bottle of vodka across the bar, confident that I would be able to catch it. "Someone either got lucky or finally stopped carrying a torch."

"Just glad to be back." I toss my towel over my shoulder and go back to my pile of glasses.

"And what brings you back to the City of the Dead? Shouldn't this be some sort of vampire mecca or something. City of the Dead and all."

"No Hellmouth."

"What's a Hellmouth?"

"Door to hell. Attracts demons, evil, all sorts of nasties. Flypaper for bad guys." The club is comfortably noisy with a good size crowd for a weeknight. Music pounds like hoof beats in the background, the steady pace keeping people energized and focused. Part of me is arrogantly pleased that Charlie hadn't been able to replace me in the month that I was out of town. I can't believe I was gone that long. For a change, the smoky club on Bourbon feels more like home than anywhere else in my one hundred and thirty plus years.

"I'll take it your trip was good then."

"Parts of it." I don't think I'll mention being a raving lunatic, eating rabbits, and listening to the trees. Probably a good idea to leave out killing Faith as well. Humans really don't have much of a sense of humor when it comes to murder and mayhem. I haven't told him that I won't be here long, still waiting for the last call to the dimension of pain and torment. It's liberating in a very twisted, masochistic way. I'm not worried about what I deserve anymore. It'll be served up in spades compliments of the Cheshire Bitch. Until then, I'm just a guy mixing drinks in a club.

"Glad to have you back. I was getting tired of explaining to all the women you left behind where you were. I think half of them considered high-tailing after you." He winks at me as he settles onto a stool behind the bar.

"Should've gotten their numbers."

"Now I know it went well. What happened to I-can't-because-some-girl-stomped-on-my-heart routine?"

"Put out the torch."

"Did you see her?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

And I kicked her ass. Can't say that either although there is a certain sense of pride at having finally beaten the Slayer, considering the truly spectacular ass kickings I'd gotten in Sunnydale over the years. It felt good to get a little of my own back, even if it was immediately followed by guilt and remorse over hurting her. When I notice that Charlie is still waiting for an answer I shrug. "Waited for the old feelings to come back. Nothing. Just nothing."

"Best way to go. You're a free man now?"

"Of sorts." I flash him a lopsided grin, nodding to the empty mirror behind me.

"The ladies love it. Creature of the night. Dark, mysterious. It's a turn on."

"Bloody idiots." I try on a friendly smile as a woman approaches the bar asking for a Cajun Bloody Mary and exchange a bit of small talk about the weather and the club as I mix her drink. A few of the customers ask me where I've been. Most of them get completely different stories. I was visiting a sick aunt. I was finalizing my divorce. I was on vacation. Whatever comes to mind and slips off of my tongue. It feels good to know that people noticed my absence. That I was missed, if only a little bit. At least there will be a few people who wonder what happen to the bartender with no reflection after I'm gone.

The night flies by in a blur of alcohol and laughter. New Orleans is in a jovial mood, fresh off of a full week with blue skies and a warm wind from the south pushing away the usual rain clouds and oppressive humidity. My spirits remain high well past the end of my shift and I'm whistling lightly as I turn the task of closing over to a new guy.

Heading out into the night, hands loose at my side, I'm surprised at how comfortable I feel in the black leather pants and white silk shirt. I've decided that I like the color white even if it does almost match my skin. Wistfully, I wonder what I would look like with a tan. My jacket is a lightweight synthetic in deep royal blue. I don't care as long as it's not black leather. Turning toward the cemetery where I first saw the girl in her red galoshes and blue overcoat, I keep my eyes open for trouble. I go there every night. Waiting for her to come and lead me merrily away to face my punishment. A stake sits patiently in my jacket pocket for the occasional vamp. Figure I might as well kill anything evil that crosses my path. Doing my bit for king and country, although technically America doesn't have a king. Some days I wonder.

The gates are locked tight to keep out bored teenagers with no imagination and too much spray paint. One good jump and I'm pulling myself up onto the top of the concrete wall and swinging my legs over. Boots hit the soft earth with a noise that's closer to a squish than a thud and my nose wrinkles as I glance down at the damp ground, hoping I didn't land in something disgusting.

With a sigh, I peer into the dark heart of the cemetery and start my aimless wandering. Off to meet my Maker or other such nonsense. Not that I mind a few more days of existence but I'm getting a little impatient to begin my sentence. Damn shame if my newfound enlightenment goes to waste. There's peace in justice and solace in penance. I'm a step closer to understanding the humans around me with all their self-sacrifice and martyrdom. Never thought I'd be one to willingly die for a cause when all I'd lived for was the rush and power of blood. Death, glory, sod all else, right? Such is youth.

I sigh and scuff the sole of my boot on the boundary of a grave. Evil never understood that people had schedules; places to be, things to do. I didn't actually have anywhere to go but it felt good to bitch about it. Silently, of course. Didn't want her to actually hear me complaining about her lack of punctuality. Punctuality was a virtue. Since when did evil entities give a damn about virtues?

"Spike." Moments after I hear her voice, she materializes a few feet away from me.

Startled by her sudden appearance and the more disturbing fact that she had called me by name, I take a step back before I remember that I'm a vampire. A demon. And I was definitely not afraid of little girls in red galoshes with soulless eyes. "'Bout time you showed up."

"The rogue Slayer is dead. We are pleased. You will not suffer eternal torment."

I stared. Maybe stare isn't a strong enough word. I gaped. My jaw would have fallen open if I hadn't been too busy grinding my teeth together. The creature didn't know that Faith was alive. Didn't know. That blew my omniscient-evil-being theory out of the water. Clearing my throat, I stick my hands in my pockets. "Well, good then. We're both happy."

"Yes." She was just watching me. It felt as though she was trying to see into my soul.

"Don't suppose you do souls?" I ask amicably.

"Why would you want a soul?" She responds without a change in her expressionless face.

I blink once and then smile, recovering from my surprise. "I don't. Bloody terrible things, souls. Wondering if you could get rid of one. For a friend of mine. Goes by the name of Angel."

"The vampire with a soul. You desire removal of his soul?"

"Miss the old man. We did some damage in our day. Heard Darla got dusted a few years back but I could round up Dru. Have a soddin' reunion or something." I was making it up as I went along. "Course you'd probably make me do some other errand for it. Not that I'm complaining. Had a right good time in Sunnydale."

"An agreement could be reached."

"Forget it. He's not worth it. We never really got along anyway. 'Sides, all he really needs is a good shag. Less work on my part." I plaster a cocky smirk on my face. "We're done then, right? You're not going to be showin' up, askin' for favors and the like?"

"We have no further business with you." Black eyes bored into my skull.

"Good. Everything's right as rain. I'll just toddle on home." I take a step backwards, waiting until she vanishes into the darkness before heading out of the cemetery.

The wind had turned cold. I watch people pull their jackets tightly around them as I make my way home. My head is still reeling. What the hell was going on? With every step I take, I am more and more convinced that I've been played like a ruddy violin. Little things begin to stand out in my mind, forming a pattern that is inconsistent with everything I knew about evil. Evil masterminds usually know all of the details or none of them. The Cheshire bitch knew about the chip but not the soul. She knew my name. She knew Buffy and Faith's names. What kind of demon bothered to remember names? She knew Faith had gone rogue but not that the Slayer was still alive.

Boots thump softly against the stairs as I make my way to the fifth floor and the loft I found after returning to New Orleans. Lost in thought, I let myself in and make my way through the darkness to the kitchen. The lights of the city shine through the windows, illuminating the last remaining hours of the night.

In preparation for dawn, I draw the shades, securing the pull strings tightly to prevent them from unexpectedly retracting and setting me on fire. Flipping on the overhead lights, I glance around at the sparse furnishings. I wanted to pick out a few more pieces of furniture. A comfortable chair. Maybe a television. Sinking down onto the sofa that had been left by the previous tenant, I stare at the blank walls and try to picture them covered with posters and paintings. Maybe a tapestry. I could make the space my own. A home.

I'm not going to die. I'm not going to be dragged into eternal torment. Unable to help myself, I begin to laugh. My voice echoes off the walls and I can't stop even though tears are streaming down my cheeks. I've been played, tricked, hoodwinked, Keyser Sozed. It's embarrassing. It's completely mortifying and incredibly hilarious.

The laughter finally subsides and I lean my head back, following the patterns in the plaster ceiling. There is nothing stretching out ahead of me but the life I choose to make for myself. I can do what I want, be what I want. I'm free. I'm finally free.

Smiling, I shrug off my jacket and head to bed. Tomorrow can wait. I need sleep. Long, luxurious hours of uninterrupted sleep. And when I get up, the first thing I'm going to do is track down that two-faced, red galoshes wearing, black holes for eyes, rotten little bitch and rip that mask off of her innocent looking face. Whoever was pulling the strings had just taken advantage of the wrong vampire.

* * *

"Here goes nothing. Or something. Is it something?" Willow looked up from her notepad, one hand over the leather duster.

"I think it's nothing. Although that really doesn't make any sense, does it?" Dawn was kneeling next to the coffee table, unwilling to go far from the black coat.

"Okay. If the owner of this jacket has a soul, it should glow blue. If he doesn't have a soul, it should turn red. I think. This hasn't actually been done before."

"Maybe we should test it on something else first," Dawn suggested nervously.

"That's not a bad idea." Xander pulled his long-sleeved corduroy shirt off and handed it over to the witch. "Check my soulness and please don't be red." He glanced around nervously. "You never know."

"Now we just need something that belongs to someone who doesn't have a soul. Anyone have a vamp handy?"

"Nope, but I know where we can get one," Buffy offered. "Although usually vamps just steal everything they have. Would that mess it up?"

"We might need something they were buried in. Just to be safe." Willow double-checked her notepad before nodding.

"Saddle up then. I'm going to need help for that."

"This is cool. It's like a scavenger hunt. For undead clothing items." Dawn grinned. "Can I wear the duster? I would look totally cool...like a superhero or something."

"No," Buffy answered quickly, but her voice was missing its edge and her smile softened the refusal. "You might confuse it. It might think you're its owner and then we'll have to start over."

"Right. Okay. Afterwards then."

"Fine. Let's go."

The gang headed out the front door and down the sidewalk, joking good naturedly as they made their way to Sunnydale's newest and busiest cemetery. Buffy and Faith walked side by side with a sort of relaxed tension, not quite talking to each other but not ignoring each other either. Dawn and Xander fell into their habitual friendly banter with Willow as their almost objective moderator.

"Fresh grave, two o'clock," Faith noted, keeping her eyes on the shadows.

"One vampire clothing caper coming up," Xander said quietly. "Did you catch that? Alliteration. Clothing caper."

Buffy rolled her eyes as she fished her stake out of her jacket pocket. "Clearly clever, Xan."

"That's the spirit."

"Here it comes." Faith motioned to the hand digging up through the loose dirt, feeling around on the top of the grave. "What's the plan?"

"You and I will hold him long enough for them to get something off of him. Then he's dust."

"How do you know it's a he? I mean, it could be a female vamp. Are they really called vampiresses or whatever. Or just vampires?" Dawn looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Dawn." Buffy pointed to the headstone. _Jonathon Meers_.

"Oh."

"Get ready, B." Faith reached down, grabbed the hand and pulled the vamp from the ground. She gripped his right arm tightly as Buffy took the other arm.

"You're all going to die," the vampire said ominously.

"Shut up." Faith kneed him once in the stomach, hard. "I'm Faith. That's Buffy. We're the Vampire Slayers. Now keep your mouth shut while we take your clothes."

"My clothes?" he gasped, looking more confused than in pain.

"His jacket maybe?" Willow hesitated.

"Pants?"

"Let's not go there, Dawn." Xander shuddered. "I'm voting for the shoes. They're easy. I'll take one leg."

"I'll take the other." Willow nodded. "Dawn?"

"Shoe bound. I hope his feet don't smell."

It turned out that the vampire was very attached to his shoes. They had been a gift from his aunt or something. Dawn had three unsuccessful attempts before she managed to grab hold of one shoe and pull it off of his foot. Xander and Willow, who had been jerked around by the vamp's attempts to shake them from his legs, found themselves inhaling dust as Buffy staked their hapless victim.

"One soul-less shoe. Get it? Soul less?" Dawn held up the shoe proudly, her pun eliciting a collective groan.

"We're test ready." Willow took the shoe and they headed back to the house to finish the spell.

"So what happens if Spike's telling the truth? If he is all soul-having and stuff?" Dawn linked one arm through Buffy's and the other through Faith's.

"Then we have a Big Bad who has it in for Faith," Buffy responded casually.

"But it means we don't hate Spike and want to kill him, right?"

"Don't push your luck," Buffy warned. "But there won't be any hunting down of souled vampires. I didn't hunt Angel down after he went Norman Bates on us. I won't hunt Spike down either. Faith can take care of it. If you want to, that is."

Faith shrugged nonchalantly. "New Orleans is a total party town anyway. I'll fit right in. Have a good time."

"What about settling down? Have you ever thought about college?" Willow asked.

"Don't really have the attention span for the book learning, Will. I'll find something."

"Yeah. You're a survivor." Dawn was almost skipping as they headed up the walk and into the house.

Back in the living room, Willow divided the powder into three portions, sprinkling one handful on each of the three items. Holding her right hand over Xander's shirt, she glanced around the room at the anxious faces. "With rose and nettle, raven's feather and blessed water, Spirits, light the aura of the one to whom this belongs. Show us the heart. Reveal the soul." The rust colored corduroy began to glow softly, casting a pale blue light through the room.

"I have a soul." Xander looked slightly relieved.

"We never doubted you for a second, Xan."

"Next. The shoe." Willow held out her hand and repeated the verse. Black leather began to shine the color of blood. "No soul for the vamp. Check. Seems to work just fine."

Silence fell heavily over the room as Willow moved to Spike's jacket, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out and repeated the verse one last time. Light flickered and began to seep over the coat, spreading down the sleeves and length.

"Blue," Dawn whispered. "Spike has a soul."


	9. Snake in the Grass

**Snake In The Grass**

I swore that I would never, in the rest of my unlife, ever wish to be back in Rupert Giles' flat in Sunnydale. That I would step outside at high noon to avoid the shelves of books and the Watcher's condescending attitude. As I left my twenty-fifth Magic Shop selling glass amulets and prettily packaged herbs I could find at the local market, I was beginning to miss the good old days. There were spell books that would have worked if I was looking for an April Fool's Day gift for Willow, there were books about auras and Feng Shui, and more voodoo dolls than even Dru could possibly want. All of it was bloody useless.

Crossing another name off of my list, I head back to Bourbon Street to check one last shop before going home. The only progress I've made was to discover that the vast majority of New Orleans magic was pure rot. Fortunately, I've only scratched the surface of the city's underbelly, where information would be harder to get but more likely to be valuable. In my present state of mind, the idea of knocking a few heads together would be a pleasure rather than a chore.

The clear jingling of a small silver bell sounded as I pushed open the door and stepped into the bookstore. _Full Moon Rising Occult Books and Supplies_. I didn't expect to find anything but it was on the list. Glancing around, I notice the smell of old books bound in leather and the faint hint of magic. Real magic.

"May I help you?" An older man, dressed in a carefully pressed oxford and trousers complete with suspenders, peers over the counter at me through round, owlish glasses. He reminds me a little too much of Doc, bringing back memories of stab wounds and Dawn.

With a grimace that has nothing to do with the shop, I make my way around the bins of books and glass jars. "Looking for information," I explain tersely, still scanning the titles on the shelves. Most of them are innocuous volumes of supernatural lore; a few are in languages I don't recognize.

"About your future perhaps? Wondering about money or a woman?" He smiles happily and I wonder if his tongue works like Doc's. For a moment I consider ripping it out of his cheerful skull to check.

Settling for something a bit more civilized, I slip into my gameface. "Not worried about my future, mate." He pales and pulls away from the counter, wringing his hands together nervously. Shaking off the fangs and ridges, I take another look around. "A girl. 'Bout thirteen. At least it looks like a girl. Evil. Maybe powerful."

He blinks with surprise but doesn't cower in fear. "Are you going to kill her?"

"Are you going to help me?" I counter threateningly.

"I-I can look," he stammers. "A little girl you say? I don't remember reading anything about evil little girls. Although you could probably argue that all teenage girls are most definitely evil." With a tense laugh he moves out from behind the counter and motions for me to follow him toward the back of the bookstore. "I have a few books of my own. Not available to the public. It's a hobby of mine." Through a heavy velvet curtain is a small library, all four walls covered floor to ceiling with packed bookshelves. A polished oak desk sits in the middle, buried under piles of parchment and notebooks. The smell of magic is stronger.

"Let's see. Incarnations of Evil. I have the whole set." He seems inordinately pleased with himself and begins to reverently pull a group of dark brown books from one of the shelves. "Would that be under girls or children, I wonder." He's lost in his own world as he begins to flip through the yellowed pages.

"How the hell should I know?" The tiny room is confining and the hum from the magic books is putting me on edge.

"Describe the being."

"'Bout this tall." I hold one hand up to the middle of my chest. "Wearing a blue overcoat, red hat and galoshes. Black eyes. Not even sure if she had eyes, just two holes in her head. Evil. And I know something about evil."

"Corporeal? Could you touch her?"

"Didn't try. She faded away like the bloody Cheshire Cat."

"Interesting. What did she want from you?"

"Wanted me to kill someone."

He glances up at me curiously. "Did you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Irritated, I shake my head and pull the chair away from the desk to sit down. "Made a deal. She scratched my back, I returned the favor. That's how it works."

"In spite of your soul?"

There's a long moment of silence and my eyes narrow. "How'd you know 'bout that?"

"I can see it." The shopkeeper smiles again. "That's why I was so surprised to see that you're a vampire."

"Yeah, well. Didn't stop me from keeping my end of the bargain."

"Quite." He picked up another book. "You're not at all what I had heard. The Vampire with a soul. I thought you were a great deal taller."

"I'm not Angel," I spit out angrily. "Name's Spike."

"That is very interesting." His eyes are shining with excitement. "Unprecedented even. The gypsy curses have been lost to us. Who cursed you? Do you remember any of the words?"

"Not a bloody curse. I won back my own soul." Crossing my arms across my chest I fix him with a cold glare. "Not that I want to be discussing my personal life with strangers who know a little too much."

"Very fascinating." He looked up from his book. "You deliberately obtained your soul and yet you agreed to kill again. A very complex creature." I'm getting the impression that I'm going to be examined like some sort of animal in a zoo, about to be poked and prodded by scientists and small children.

"That's me. Complex." With a shrug, I look away, searching the shelves for something interesting.

"What did this little girl offer you that was worth a life?"

"You seem to know a lot. Figure it out yourself."

"Well, you still have your soul." Dark eyes regarded me thoughtfully. "Something else then. Freedom. Free will, perhaps."

"After a fashion." This guy is creepy. Beyond creepy. Maybe I will dissect him after all. At least it would shut him up. Frustration is making me short-tempered and his perceptiveness is landing pretty high on the wiggins scale. Wiggins. Damn Scoobies and their sodding language deficiencies. "This isn't about me, mate. It's about a little girl. A very evil little girl."

"Are you sure it was a little girl?"

"I don't know what it was. Something playing at being a little girl." I suppress the urge to hit something until my knuckles bleed. "I just have to find it."

"Have you considered witchcraft? Perhaps it was a spell, to hide the true appearance of the being."

"Thought about it. Are there spells for that?"

"Quite a few. This doesn't sound like a typical glamour. The eyes. I think that is important." He starts into another pile of books, muttering as he searches through the titles, finally pulling out a large green volume. "Index of Illusionary Spell Casting. Quite rare. Found this copy in Syria in the forties."

"Bully for you." I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"It was quite a find." He hums softly as he begins to search. Tapping lightly on one of the pages, he looks up at me with the curious expression that I am beginning to intensely dislike. "This being did not sense your soul?"

"No." It's my turn to watch him thoughtfully. "Knew my name. Knew about the chip. But not the soul."

"The chip?"

"Bloody government chip in my head. Kept me from hurting anything human."

"And she removed this chip? That was the bargain."

"Yeah. That was it." How did this rotten little man manage to get information out of me so easily? I wasn't even sure if he was human. All I could smell was musty books and magic.

"How long did you have the chip?"

"Soldier boys caught me in '99. Bitch zapped it out of my head three years ago. Spring 2003."

"And others knew of this chip?"

"Whole goddamn world knew about it. Couldn't go anywhere without someone throwing it in my face." I was getting worked up just thinking about my years as a neutered vampire. "Demons. The Slayer. Poor Spike. Can't hurt anything. He's harmless."

"Who knows about your soul?"

"Slayer. Probably the Scoobies by now. Guy I work for down on Bourbon. That's all." I watch him turn back to his book, half expecting another barrage of questions.

"Interesting."

"I got that part." Scowling, I pick up one of the books and glance at the words on the spine. "I'm complex and interesting. Is this interrogation going anywhere useful?"

His eyes meet mine for a moment. "There are always six questions that need to be answered. Who, what, where, when, why, how. In those questions lie all the answers you need."

"Right. Who. A little girl without eyes."

"Who knew about the chip and what you would be willing to do to get it out."

That made me uneasy. It implied a Big Bad who was possibly closer to home than I had thought. "I'll bite. Figuratively of course. Next question. What?"

"Action. What did it want?"

"The Slayer. Dead and buried."

"The Slayer." He frowned and turned a few more pages.

"Not unusual. Always a few baddies out for the Slayer. One of 'em at least. And both sides took turns trying to off Faith."

"There's more than one Slayer?"

"Two. Don't ask. Might be another now."

"Another?"

"One dies, another gets Chosen. Not sure how that works exactly." I'm trying to read something about a demon who either eats raw fish or uses them for interior decorating, the passage isn't too clear.

"Then there are three Slayers." He smiles at my unintentional slip. "The Slayer you were sent to kill still lives."

"Yeah. Long story." I shift uncomfortably in the chair, any attempts at being frightening now thrown out the window.

"But the being who sent you doesn't know?"

"No. You read minds too? Like the soul thing?"

"Even if I could, it doesn't work with vampires." Still intent on the book in his hands, he searches absently for a something in the pile of papers on his desk. "It could have been a projection." He slides an open book toward me. "An illusion of a being that can be cast from a distance. The being you see may not even be the one casting the spell but a decoy. It's not a difficult spell but it requires a great deal of power. Very draining."

"Then it could be anyone. Anything."

"I'm afraid so." He fiddles with his suspenders for a moment. "Menejar projection is the most common. Menejar was a powerful sorcerer in the twelfth century. He was rumored to have been able to be in many places at the same time."

"Is there a way to find out for sure?"

"The ritual required is quite involved. It would be difficult to conceal and would cause unusual phenomena in the immediate vicinity. Temporal disturbances, flashes of light or heat. It varies." Shifting a few books, he perches on the edge of the desk, folding his hands in his lap. "I believe this is your best possibility. It is widely accepted that the eyes are windows to the soul. Even the new age rubbish nowadays is full of bits of the old truths. A projection has no soul. The eyes would then be windows into a void, into complete emptiness." He pauses for a moment. "They can be cast across large distances, even through different dimensions if the wielder is strong enough. They can also embody some of the traits and abilities of the caster. You said that she 'zapped' it out of your head. Most likely a relocation spell. I wouldn't be surprised if, had you looked, you would have found the chip not far away from where you were. It's simple but quite advanced for this day and age. Most of the powerful m agic is long gone from this dimension."

Rubbing my forehead, I wonder if painkillers work for vampires with stress induced migraines. If there wasn't an evil demon out there who looked like a little girl, then I was looking for a needle and the whole world was my haystack. "Why are you helping me?"

"I enjoy a good puzzle. And you are most puzzling."

"Glad to amuse." I'm tired of wandering around in circles trying to figure out what had been playing with my head. "Thanks, mate." With a sigh, I escape the confining walls of the room, past the velvet curtain and through the maze of bookshelves.

"Answer the questions, vampire," he calls. "The being behind your little girl knows you. Or believes that they do."

With a sigh, I head out of the shop into the night, hearing the bell jingle behind me. Sounds of engines and people looking for a good time fill my ears, unable to capture my attention. As flattering as it is that someone took the time and effort to track me down after I left Sunnydale and send me cryptic care packages with strings attached, I feel out of my league trying to fathom the mind behind the curtain. They had patience I could never dream of and no compulsion at freeing a serial killer from his prison. Taking the chip from my head without knowledge of my soul meant that they were willing to sacrifice innocent lives to get to Faith. It also meant that they couldn't kill her directly. They needed a go-to guy. Me. It was a logical choice, the vampire who had already killed two Slayers.

Horns honk loudly as I cross the street, not registering in my brain as I struggle to fit the pieces into a picture. Who, what, where, when, why, how. I couldn't answer any of them. Could the shopkeeper with suspenders and Doc-like inquiring eyes be wrong? Should I believe him? There was no reason not to.

Who knew that I killed two Slayers? Knew about the chip, knew possibly everything I had done and been up until I left Buffy on her bathroom floor four years ago. Who had Faith betrayed? Near as I could tell, she'd pissed off the entire western hemisphere during her little joyride into evil. I should have asked her about it. I should have stayed in Sunnydale where I could protect her.

That thought almost stopped me in my tracks, to the annoyance of a silver Toyota waiting for me to leave the street. I'd run back here because I wanted to take my beating for the past. I'd been liberated when eternal torment had been rescinded, finally in complete control of my own life and destiny. The old me would have seized the opportunity to live it up. I was a free man. Why was I spending my nights off searching through charlatan magic shops and listening to creepy bookworms? Why not wash my hands of the whole affair and let Faith and the Scoobies muddle through on their own? After all, I hadn't bothered to stick around and help with the fight against the First Evil.

I wince as I head down Bourbon Street. Maybe if I had, Anya would still be alive. Maybe I could have saved her. Or Tara even. Clem said a lot of people had died. People I didn't know or care about. I could have saved some of them. If I had been there. With a discouraged sigh, I push through the doors of the club and head toward the bar.

"Spike. What are you doing here?" Charlie asked as I sat down. "Drink?"

"Whiskey."

"Bad day?"

"Not blood and peaches, that's for sure." I tip the glass to him in a mock salute and down my shot, savoring the burn of the liquor down my throat.

"This ought to cheer you up. Woman came in looking for you about an hour ago. Good looking, great body." He caught my look and held up his hands in surrender. "I know, I know. You don't like me meddling. But give this one a chance. She was different. Spunky. Not the usual brainless bimbo in off the streets looking for a roll and tumble."

"She leave a name?" I'm not sure why I'm interested. Maybe because the idea of me being a bloody Champion of the fucking people is a little too disturbing. I am not Angel. I will never be Angel. I'm not even two hundred yet, I should be having a good time instead of brooding about evil and its sinister plots. God. I'm brooding. How pathetic.

"I gave her your number. And your address. Told her to wait for you if you weren't there."

"Great. Thanks a lot. Isn't that against the bloody law?" The angry glare I'm giving him doesn't even faze him.

"Go home, Spike. Get laid. It'll do wonders for you."

Tapping the shot glass on the counter, I open my mouth to say something sarcastic about humans and their uncanny ability to get their noses so far into other people's business that they're in danger of it being cut off. Two seconds into that train of thought, I realize he's right. If for no other reason than to prove to the universe that I'm not Angel, I can do the one thing he can't without losing his precious soul.

"Thanks, Charlie."

His grin is wide enough to split his face and he's probably doing some sort of victory dance as I head out of the club. I've never shown any interest in a woman before and he's bound to consider this a coup d'etat of a monumental scale. Meddlesome Americans. Never know when to leave a bloke in peace.

There's a new sense of urgency in my step as I twist through the streets toward home and I have to admit that it's been a long four years since my last night with Buffy. Vampire or no, I'm still a man. I take the stairs three and four at a time, mind spinning with the possibilities. Who was she? What did she want? It wasn't the first time Charlie had tried to set me up with a woman asking about me. I'd flatly refused all his previous attempts. This was the first time he'd practically thrown a woman into my bed.

I'm tense as I round the corner and start down the hallway, keeping my footsteps light so as not to wake the other tenants. Am I nervous? Is that what this is? Charlie was right. I do need to get laid.

The door to my loft is slightly ajar, setting off alarm bells and whistles in my head. Creeping forward silently, I squint through the crack. There isn't any movement but there's light coming from the bedroom. I push the door open slowly, waiting for an ambush. There is nothing.

With one cautious step, I enter my apartment and look around in dismay. Broken furniture lies scattered across the floor in pieces. Lamps are smashed and bent, the television lying in a pile of sparks and wires with a gaping hole in the center. The windows have been destroyed, glass strewn over the floors. There are holes in the walls from fists or feet and the bedroom has been torn apart. I can smell blood. And dust.

Glancing at the floor, I catch the telltale patterns of what had been half a dozen vampires. A snapped chair leg appears to be the murder weapon. There's blood on the wall in the living room and on the kitchen floor. Whoever it was put up a hell of fight. Human blood. Fresh. Barely an hour old and frighteningly familiar. Stepping into the kitchen, I catch the scent I'm terrified to find. Magnolias.

Faith.

* * *

The pounding in Faith's head was only exceeded by the aching of her sore muscles and the sting where the tranquilizer dart had embedded itself into her side. Stifling a moan, she opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the darkness around her. Her movement was constrained by chains around her wrists and ankles.

"This had better not be someone's sick idea of foreplay," she muttered, testing the strength of her bonds and using her legs to push herself painfully into a sitting position. She was in a cage. Heavy chain link surrounded her on all sides and a dark cloth, possibly a tarp, was draped over the top. She felt like an animal on the way to the vet. Not a good mental image considering how many trips to the vet ended with a sharp needle and the great playground in the sky.

Her last memory was of Spike's apartment, sitting on the couch waiting for him to come home. The guy at the club had given her the address. For a vampire, Spike wasn't hard to find. Ask any single female in the New Orleans city limits and they could tell you about the blond bartender at 735 Bourbon Street who mixed wicked drinks and remained, perplexingly, unattached. They even seemed to know he was a vampire or at least that he was different somehow. It all added to the sex appeal. When Faith had asked the older guy behind the bar, he had supplied the information with only a moment's pause and a definite look of appraisal. Faith got the impression that she wasn't the first woman to be asking, but possibly the first to get the information.

Nearly a dozen vampires crashing through the windows and kicking open the front door was the last thing Faith had expected. They'd come prepared with chains and tranquilizer guns and apparently they had instructions not to kill. That didn't keep Faith from taking out most of them before the dart found its mark.

Bruises ached and she could feel the burn where glass had cut her forehead, spilling blood down her temple and cheek. At least Spike would know she'd been there. If he was still alive. She didn't want to know who he'd pissed off to earn this welcoming committee.

The sound of voices broke through the darkness. One of them was English, much more polished than Spike's accent but not as much as Giles or Wesley. She frowned, straining to hear the conversation.

"I sent you for a vampire. One William the Bloody. Also known as Spike. You brought me a girl."

"She was strong. She killed half of us."

"Even better. You brought me the Slayer. Do you have any idea what a bitch Buffy Summers is? Any idea?" The Englishman sounded furious. "You have ruined three years of careful planning and work, you idiots. I ought to stake you all myself."

Footsteps approached the cage and light flooded in painfully, leaving Faith blinking and trying to shield her eyes. When she could see, she looked up at her captors. Three of the vamps that had survived their botched kidnapping were watching her warily. The Brit was an attractive older man, salt and pepper brown hair and cold brown eyes. Thin lips curled into a vicious smile as he stared into the cage.

"My, my...this is very interesting." The light in his eyes was frightening as he crouched down to look at Faith on her level. "You're supposed to be dead."

"Sorry to spoil your plans. You'll get used to me fucking things up." She smirked as she tried to find a more comfortable position against the wire.

"I hear you've reformed. Such a pity." He tipped his head to one side. "Care to explain the reason you're alive? Your death has been recorded, another Slayer called."

"Fuck you."

"A dirty mouth for such a pretty face." Standing up, he shrugged and started away from the cage. "You'll talk soon enough. Get her out and tie her up."

One of the vamps was watching her with trepidation. "Boss?"

"Shoot her first if you're all cowards."

Faith winced as the hiss of the gun sounded and a dart buried its needle tip into her thigh. A few seconds later the world was spinning and she was fighting for consciousness. She needed to get out of the cage and warn Spike. She needed help.

* * *

The squeal of brakes cut through the exhaust heavy air of the Sunnydale bus depot. Two black, military style boots stood at the edge of the platform for a second before starting purposefully down the street.

She was tall, with dark hair cropped into a masculine style that was more practical for her line of work. Dressed all in black, a matching knapsack slung over one shoulder, she moved quickly and easily through the night. Once out of sight of the people at the bus station, she paused briefly and removed her weapons from the bag.

A leather holster wrapped around her waist, holding two semi-automatic pistols that fired bullets of metal and wood, and two wooden stakes. She quickly strapped a dagger to her right calf and a sword onto her back. Fully armed, she continued her trek through the streets of Sunnydale. Every street and alleyway had been memorized on her trip from the Slayer Academy in England. She had even calculated the quickest route to her destination in the quiet residential area of town.

Arriving at Revello Drive, she glanced up at the bungalow home where the former Slayer, Buffy Summers, lived. Silently, she strode up the walk and knocked loudly on the front door.

After a moment, a young woman answered the door. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Buffy Summers?"

"New Slayer?"

"Yes."

The girl opened the door and motioned for her to come in. "What's your name?"

"Cara."

"That's pretty. I'll get Buffy."

Cara waited in the foyer, standing stiffly at attention as she glanced quickly about the rooms. The young girl must be Dawn Summers. The Key. Strange, she looked human enough. Further proof that appearances could not be trusted.

"Hey! Cara, right? I'm Buffy." A petite blonde appeared, wiping her hands on a towel. "Welcome to Sunnydale. You should have let us know when you were getting in. We could have picked you up. Well, Xander or Willow could have picked you up. Or Dawn. I'm not much with the whole driving thing."

Cara didn't respond, hearing nothing that required feedback on her part. This woman was part of the old regime. She didn't even have a Watcher. "Xander and Willow are your human friends."

"Yes." Buffy looked puzzled.

"I need to meet them."

"They're stopping by tomorrow after they pick up Gi...giant size cereal. You know, king size, giant size. Things just keep getting bigger and bigger. But they'll be here and they're great." Buffy smiled brightly. "Do you need a place to stay?"

"I was instructed only to make contact with you." Cara turned and stepped back through the doorway. "I will return tomorrow to meet your friends."

"Great. Tomorrow then!"

Boots clicked as she pivoted and started back down the walkway, into the night and toward the center of town. Seeing a payphone, she stopped long enough to retrieve a phone card from her knapsack and dial a series of numbers.

"Contact has been made with Buffy Summers and Dawn Summers," she reported into the phone. "The humans will be approached tomorrow. I believe that Rupert Giles will arrive in Sunnydale tomorrow as well. Surveillance of the targets will continue until further orders are received." The phone settled back into the cradle and she left the phone booth, heading toward one of the many cemeteries Sunnydale had to offer.

It was a waste of her talents to be stuck in the small town. She should be pursuing demons instead of waiting for them to come to her. She was the Slayer; her calling was to hunt and kill demons. It was very simple. However, the Sunnydale threat had to be eliminated first. Once the Hellmouth was rid of uncontrollable elements, she would be free to perform her duty as it was meant to be.


	10. Fists and Fangs

**Fists and Fangs**

My fist hits the vampire's face with the satisfying crunch of a breaking nose. Blood spurts down his face as he stumbles backwards trying to get away from me. A sharp kick catches him in the stomach and he doubles over in pain, glaring up at me through yellow eyes.

"Start talking," I growl as I slip a stake out of my pocket.

"Go to hell."

"Planning on it. But my travel plans aren't the discussion." There's a crack as my boot connects with his jaw. "Vampires. Lots of them. Sent after me. Who's behind it?"

"I don't know."

"I don't believe you."

"Fuck you." The vamp disappears into a cloud of dust as my stake pierces his heart.

Sighing, I brush dust off of my arm and trek through another row of crypts. One cemetery down. Fifteen more and two dozen demon bars to go. At this point I don't care if I have to kill every vamp in New Orleans and torture every demon in North America. I'll do whatever I have to do to find Faith.

For a change of pace, I head into the darker side of town, glancing warily around me at the condemned buildings and threatening graffiti. Three blocks south and a left turn brings me to a seedy looking bar where the patronage is unusually exotic even for New Orleans. It's a busy night and there are half a dozen species of demons that I don't recognize as well as the ubiquitous fangs, horns, scales, and reptilian style tongues. If possible, it's dirtier than Willy's back in Sunnydale and most of the furniture has obviously seen better days.

I make my way to the bar and order a drink. My blue jeans and tan shirt stand out like a neon sign. Maybe I had gotten rid of my duster a little prematurely. It didn't matter now. The blood and liquor goes down smoothly as I scan the crowd, trying to pick out my next victim. Vampires talk. They love to talk. Someone has to know who was behind the attack.

"You're that vampire." A greenish skinned demon sits down next to me, blinking black liquid eyes at me curiously. "The one with the soul. Angel."

How many times do I have to tell people that I'm not Angel? I'm already in a bad mood and it takes everything I have not to beat the moron's skull in. Is it really that hard to understand that there is more than one vampire with a soul? Halfway through my internal ranting, I stop, trying to calm down and finish off my drink. I don't have time to break the kneecaps of everyone who pisses me off.

"I heard you were in L.A," the creature continues amiably. "I have a cousin there. Nice girl. Maybe you know her?"

"Not likely, mate. Big city." I keep my tone civil, deciding to take advantage of the rare friendly demon. "Looking for someone who might have information about a raiding party two nights ago. Vampires."

"I heard about that. After William the Bloody." The creature shuddered. "Most of them didn't make it. I've heard stories about that guy. Goes by Spike nowadays."

"Stories?" I can't help but feel flattered. "What stories?"

"I heard he's killed three Slayers." Black eyes blink and his voice lowers to a whisper. "He had some sort of chip in his head for a while, kept him from hurting humans. In order to get it out, they had to take out part of his brain. Rumors say he's completely insane now. Crazy as a loon. Kills anything that crosses his path, human, demon, doesn't matter."

"That so?" I keep my voice flat. Bloody morons.

"The vamps who tried to catch him, they were part of the north central gang. Cable's territory. Probably wanted to recruit him."

"Recruit?" That was unexpected.

"Haven't you heard? Slayer line's getting a makeover. They'll hunt you down and nowhere's safe anymore. Used to be...the Slayer stayed on the Hellmouth. Things are gonna change." It stares into its drink for a moment with an expression somewhere between depression and panic. "Need someone to take them down before they kill us all."

Frowning, I ask for directions to find Cable, still puzzling over the rumors relayed by the friendly demon. He asks for an autograph, holding out an old pizza flyer and a pen. I try not to smile as I sign William the Bloody and head out of the bar. The sound of the demon's glass breaking as it hits the ground is strangely satisfying.

Cable's territory extends north from Metairie to the shores of Lake Portchartrain, taking in a wide variety of neighborhoods and districts. Most of their lairs are on the outskirts and toward the lake in warehouses and cemeteries while the prime hunting area is the commercial district. In their attempt at centralizing, the planners had unwitting created the equivalent of an all you can eat buffet, placing all the clubs and bars in the same area.

A few more battered and then dusty vampires and I'm heading toward a newly renovated building along one of the canals. Two guys have been tailing me for about a mile now and I'm assuming they're a couple of Cable's goons. I have to give the guy some credit, he runs a tight ship and manages to keep a large group of imbecilic vampires from ruining his operations. It takes talent and a certain business savoir faire to keep a low profile while moving in society. Double checking the address, I glance up at the brick and glass building rising above me. There's an underground parking lot with a vampire guarding the entrance.

"Halt." Guard Vamp is tall and heavily built, watching me carefully from the booth. He's definitely seen too many action hero movies. "Identify yourself."

And the funny just keeps coming. I start toward him with a smirk. "Spike. Here to see Cable."

"Is he expecting you?"

"He is now."

The Schwarzenegger wannabe talks into a radio briefly, yellow eyes glancing at me every few seconds to make sure I haven't tried to sneak past him. Finally he gives me a curt nod. "You may pass. Third floor."

I roll my eyes as I head into the concrete jungle toward the elevator. Give a vampire a few minions and everything goes to hell; they start getting picky and demanding. Most turn into downright snobs who don't want to mingle with their own kind. The hydraulics whisper as the elevator begins its ascent, shuddering silently when it comes to a stop and the doors slide open. Dark carpet and rich wood tones give the office a claustrophobic feeling. Seated at a large desk in the center and flanked by bodyguards is a sophisticated looking vampire I can only assume is Cable. Tinted windows provide an obscured view of the city behind him.

"Spike. Do come in." The vampire is wearing a dark navy suit and black shoes shined to a mirror polish. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Looking for information." I glance at his henchmen. Four vamps. Big, strong, probably dumb as posts.

"I've heard. You've killed quite a few of my men."

"I'll kill a few more if I don't get what I came for." The stake in my jacket pocket is small comfort against these odds.

"And what is it, exactly, that you want?" Cable smiles coldly and leans onto his desk, fingers together.

"Rumor has it that some of your men were responsible for redecorating my flat a couple nights ago. I want to know who was behind it." I'm stiff, tensed for possible violence and still furious over having lost Faith.

"Was she your girl?" He gives me a measuring look. "Such a pity. Wrong place, wrong time. You know how it goes. I'll tell you what, I'll make you a deal."

"No deals. Give me the information and I'll let you live."

He laughs at that. "You're outnumbered Spike and there are more of my men downstairs. All I have to do is give the word and you'll be nothing but a pile of dust."

"I'd like to see you try." My voice is level despite my anger. Fear that Faith is hurt or dead adds fuel to my desire to snap a few more necks.

Leaning back into the chair, he watches me for a moment before his face twists into a vicious sneer. "She must be a good fuck to be worth this. Maybe I'll take her for a spin. You wouldn't mind, would you?"

"If you touch her-"

"You'll what?" Cutting me off, he stands up and moves around the end of the desk. "We're on the same side, Spike. Let's not fight over a woman."

"Were you behind it?"

"Sadly, no. The job came in from a colleague overseas. You were the original target, of course. Although kidnapping your whore seems to have gotten you here just as effectively."

I blanch at the derogatory reference to Faith, grinding my teeth to keep from making a retort. He's baiting me, taunting me into saying or doing something stupid. I still don't know where they took her. At least she's alive. "Where is she?"

"Safe. For the time being." He still has that smug smile pasted on his lips. "Back to my deal. I think you'll like it. It's right up your alley."

"Something about Slayers?"

"Excellent guess but not entirely correct." He nods to one of his goons, who pulls a manila folder out of the desk and passes it over. Tapping the folder, Cable turns back to me and waves to one of the chairs. "Have a seat."

"I'll stand," I snap angrily.

"Suit yourself. We're in this together." He opens the folder. "I pay people very well to keep me informed. Especially if it concerns me. This concerns all of us. Every vampire on this planet will be affected." His voice is serious now and a frown creases his brow. "Three years ago, the Watcher's Council was obliterated by an agent of the First Evil and all but a handful of potential Slayers were killed."

"I heard."

"When the new Council formed, they adopted a new approach. They're no longer training Slayers. They're training assassins." He closes the folder and places it back onto the desk. "Their new goal is to track us down one by one and wipe us out. Seems ludicrous, I know. Thousands of vampires and demons against one little girl. It's impossible. Do you agree?"

"I might." I wonder where he's going with this new bit of information.

"This is a new breed of Slayer. They've changed the rules." He stares into space somewhere over my head for a few seconds before looking back at me. "Here's what I don't understand. Why go after you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why would the Watcher's Council hire me and my men to capture and contain you? I'm not complaining because it keeps the new Slayer off of my back." Fingers play with the edge of the folder and the smile returns. "But I'm a curious vampire and I want to know why. What do you have that makes you important to them?"

Words get stuck in my throat as the light bulb finally switches on. The Watcher's Council. They knew about my chip, knew everything about me up until four years ago when I dropped from the radar screen. They hated Faith and had tried to kill her before. Another Slayer had been called when Faith had died, explaining how the little girl knew she had died but not that I had brought her back. And the threat of eternal torment? That should have been the dead giveaway that a bunch of stuffy British gits were behind the whole charade. Was Giles part of it? He had to be. The bitter taste of betrayal surprised me. They had taken the chip out of my head, not caring how many people I killed or if I had butchered Buffy and the Scooby gang along with Faith. The wankers had purposefully and deliberately sent William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, after their own Slayer.

"Where is she?" My voice sounds strained, hissing through my teeth.

"With my colleague on his way to England," Cable answers dismissively, not caring whether or not I know what's happened to her. "I've told you what you wanted to know. Now it's your turn."

"No deal." My fingers close around the stake in my jacket pocket. "I'm not dealing with you."

"Come now. You really don't have a choice. I don't understand why you're against me." He looks genuinely confused at my refusal.

"Because it's wrong." I smile at the irony of my words and take a step back. "I'm leaving. One way or another."

Glancing at the bodyguards surrounding him, he nods once. "Try not to kill him. Damaged is good." He heads toward a door in the wooden paneling, disappearing into another room and leaving me alone with the four Stooges.

"Not much for good byes, is he?" I drawl, my eyes darting back and forth between them.

Stooge Number One makes the first move, trying to turn me around and force me back into the waiting clutches of his cronies. He gets a jab to the throat and loses a knee for his trouble. Number Two isn't careful; my stake finds his heart and leaves a dark patch of dust on the carpet. The remaining two have wised up, circling me like vultures and trying to move with synchronicity. Their fists are like sledgehammers; there's blood in my mouth, on my knuckles, and I can feel bruises forming where they've connected.

One of the monsters grabs me from behind, holding me as the other slams his fist into my face, leaving my ears ringing. Pushing off of the ground, I swing my legs up and catch the vampire in front of me around the neck. There's a sickening crack as his neck breaks and he stumbles back against the wall, wounded but still undead. Throwing my weight forward, boots hit the carpet, breaking the vamp's grip and sending him tumbling over my back. He's disappearing into the carpet before the shock can register on his face. Growling angrily, I stake the wounded goons and kick down the door Cable disappeared through. The room beyond is silent and empty. No sign of the bastard.

I return to the office and pick up the manila folder from the desk. There are pictures of an old, stone building and a map of London. Papers, small-scale blueprints, and a list of contacts. With a grim smile, I close the folder and turn to leave.

Hissing ominously, the elevator doors open and a group of vampires emerge armed with rope and tranquilizer guns. Half a second passes as they look around for the four who were supposed to subdue me. It's long enough for me to turn and get a head start across the office. There's shouting behind me and a dart whispers against my ear in a near miss.

My impact against the glass resonates through my body just before I feel it give way and shatter into pieces around me. Falling three stories in a few terrifying seconds, I miss the concrete sidewalk by inches, landing on lush grass. Staggering to my feet and wincing at the stabbing pain in my side indicating broken ribs, I force myself into an agonizing run. Home is no longer safe and I have to get to Faith. There's blood in my mouth, down my throat, in my lungs. I'm choking on it. Jumping through the window might not have been the best plan. At least the folder is still curled tightly in my hands. It was something.

I'm not sure how or why I made it to the _Full Moon Rising_ bookstore, my head fuzzy with pain. The bell jingles in my ears, a warm light beckoning to me from the back of the store as I stumble forward. My vision blurs and the world begins to tip sideways, tumbling me onto my knees in pain. Dark eyes look down at me through round glasses and the bookworm's curious voice is trying to make its way through the fog in my head. I manage a strangled plea for help before darkness takes me.

* * *

Faith hated being caged. Hated being trapped like an animal. She tried to think of something she hated more just to pass the time. Kakistos. Gwendolyn Post. Watchers in general. None of them even came close to the black rage she felt at being surrounded by twisted metal wire. It was worse than being back in prison. But it was worlds better than where she was now.

The rope around her wrists had long since rubbed her skin raw and blistered. She hadn't had a shower or a decent meal in days and her mouth was sticky with blood. One side of her face was swollen and there were a couple loose molars on the bottom row of teeth. The English bastard was watching her carefully, as if trying to decide what to hit her with next. Five torture groups. Karma was a bitch. Even if she wanted to laugh at the turnabout, the burning pain in her side and chest would have squelched that urge quickly enough.

All she had left was her anger and her hate. All she could do was glare up at her captor and imagine his screaming as she broken every one of his fingers. He smiled when he caught her look and shook his head, making a tsk-tsk sound.

"So spirited." His voice was smooth, almost pleasant to listen to. If she hadn't been tied to a chair and if he wasn't torturing her. "I'm really only doing this because it's so much fun. In the end, it doesn't matter why or how you're alive. You're not important." He bent closer to her ear. "You've never been important, have you, Faith? You've always been nothing."

"Go to hell," she ground out through clenched teeth.

"Faith, Faith." He moved around behind her, trailing his fingers over her collarbones and neck. "He's looking for you. The vampire. I find it fascinating. Why would a vampire be trying to find you? Maybe even rescue you? How romantic. In a very sick and twisted fashion, of course."

"You're going to get your ass kicked when he finds you." She wouldn't have believed him if she hadn't already known that Spike would come after her, that he would tear down the pillars of heaven if he had to. She didn't know how she knew. She just knew. It still felt good to hear that he was looking, he was coming. She wasn't alone. If she could just hold on a little longer.

"He won't find us. He's being led in the wrong direction." He laughed softly, pulling her hair away from her face into a tight ponytail. "I've had years to plan. To wait. I'm not going to let anyone ruin it. You're just a bonus."

He jerked her head back roughly, using his knife to cut away chunks of her hair. When he was satisfied with his work, he moved around in front of her again to examine the jagged new style. With a disappointed sigh, he shook his head. "Still too pretty. We'll have to do something about that." He started into torture group number two.

Faith held her jaw tightly shut. She wasn't going to give the bastard the satisfaction of hearing her scream. Ever. He could do what he wanted, it didn't matter. She was stronger than he was. Stronger.

I can't wait to see their faces. Do you think they'll still look at you when you aren't pretty anymore?" The knife blade dug into her cheek.

"You're one sick fuck," she hissed.

"And quite insane. Maximum security prison will do that to a man. Of course, you know about that as well." He stroked the side of her face gently, smearing her blood over her skin. "We have so much in common, Faith."

"When I get loose. You're gonna die. Slowly," she whispered, her voice shaking with loathing and pain.

"I don't think so." He pulled away from her, losing his interest in torture for the moment. "You're the one who's going to die. You and Buffy Summers and her little friends. They're already marked for execution. I just have to give the word and they'll be snuffed out. Like candles."

Faith struggled against the ropes binding her wrists, ignoring the searing pain as they bit into her already raw wounds. "Why are you doing this? Why kill them?"

Brown eyes glittered dangerously and he dropped the knife onto the table. "Why not? I think I'll torture Buffy for a while. See if she holds up as well as you have."

"You can't beat her." Faith winced as she smiled, feeling her skin separate and reopen the wound on her face. "And you'll never break her."

"Speaking from experience?"

"She's better than you. Whoever the fuck you are."

"That's right. We've never been introduced. Not properly anyway." He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. "I missed your brief reign of terror in Sunnydale."

"So who are you? I'd like to know your name before I rip your heart out." Faith spat blood onto the dirty floor.

"Ethan Rayne." His voice was cold and bitter.

Faith searched her memories for a reference to an Ethan Rayne. Vaguely familiar. Had Buffy mentioned him? His footsteps faded away and she eyed his knife speculatively. Rocking her weight back and forth, she could slide the chair across the concrete slowly. Inch by grueling inch, she made progress toward the table. She didn't have much time before the vamp lackey showed up with cold soup and a slice of bread. If her feet weren't tied to the chair legs she could have broken it apart. If she could just get her hands free. Her wrists were slick with blood as she managed another inch.

This was nothing. She'd been in prison. She'd been dead. This was a walk in the park. Holding tightly to her conviction, she focused on the knife. Get to the knife. Get her hands free. One step at a time.

Her body was screaming with pain when she finally bumped up against the table, trying to maneuver her bonds to allow enough reach. Frustrated that she couldn't quite touch the knife, she sunk back against the chair, breathing hard. Sweat stung her wounds and brought involuntary tears to her eyes. Her head was pounding, spinning with exhaustion and trauma. Leaning her forehead against the table, she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a dark corner and escape into sleep. Would it have been better if Spike had just let her die?

_Save me._ His voice echoed softly in her head. No one had ever asked her to save them. No one had ever leaned on her for strength. She had always been the one who was weak, who needed saving. Always the liability, the Slayer who needed a heavy hand, the daughter who wanted a dog. Just wanted to be wanted. If she stopped fighting, let the British bastard cut her into pieces, who wouldn't breathe a sigh of relief that she wasn't around to take care of? No one would have to save Faith again. No one would have to put up with her being around. Maybe.

And maybe not. Gritting her teeth against the firing of her battered nerves, she began to slide the chair over the rough ground once more. This time moving toward the concrete steps. Maybe she needed people, needed to be loved and accepted. And maybe they would be better off without her. But the psycho bastard was going to kill Buffy and the Scoobies. For a change, they needed her. She wasn't going to let them down.

Wood scraped against stone and she closed her eyes, steeling herself against the impact as she bent forward, lifting the chair a few inches into the air. With a deep breath, she tensed and lunged backwards against the steps. Wood cracked and she almost cried out with the pain as her wrists took the force of the impact. Again. The joints of the chair began to loosen. Tears poured down her cheeks as she slammed against the concrete, feeling the chair legs and back snap and buckle.

Sinking to her knees, she had enough give in the rope to shake the back of the chair away, leaving her hands free to pull the seat and shattered legs apart. She was trembling as she stood up, legs unsteady and sore from the ropes. Slipping her arms underneath her feet, she limped back to the table and worked at them awkwardly with the knife.

It was agonizingly slow but she managed to cut away the rope, grimacing at the blood staining her wrists and hands. One of the chair legs had broken with a sharp point, creating a makeshift stake. Gripping it as tightly as her injured hands allowed, she crept quietly up the steps. A familiar sting caught her shoulder and she stumbled against the wall, turning around in horror to see Ethan Rayne smiling at her, a tranquilizer gun in his hand.

"Leaving us so soon?" His face blurred and split into two as she sunk to the floor, stake clattering to the ground beside her. "The party hasn't even started."

Her last thought as she drifted into unconsciousness was that she had failed. Again.

* * *

The Summers home was quiet, providing a measure of peace and relief for the three people sitting in the living room. Giles was nursing a cup of tea and a broken arm. His face was covered with cuts in various stages of healing. Someone had blown up his car. It seemed that was the preferred method of getting rid of Watchers.

"Things have been getting worse for some time." Giles winced, trying to adjust his arm on the mound of pillows Dawn had provided. "The new Head Watcher, Elliot, has been more and more erratic the last year or so. Many of us believe that the death of his daughter three years ago is the cause of his difficulty. At first he was just distant. But now...now he's a man possessed."

"What happened to his daughter?" Buffy was perched on the edge of the coffee table anxiously.

"I don't know. He never speaks of it. At first, the changes he made were productive. The Slayer Academy to train the potentials. The extra funding for research and weaponry. These girls are ready to take over when they are called. They speak several languages, many of them demon languages. They're amazing really."

"And the catch?" Dawn asked cynically. "There's always a catch."

"Elliot was willing to go to any lengths. Do anything. We didn't even notice the girls were changing. Becoming less human." Giles looked weary beyond his years. "I don't know what happened to them."

"Definitely scary. The new girl, Cara, she's like a robot. Reminds me of the Initiative soldiers. You don't think he went Dr. Frankenstein on us, like Maggie Walsh?" Buffy didn't like any part of that idea.

"We don't know much." He chuckled bitterly as he put his mug down awkwardly. "I found a memo. Can you believe they wrote a memo? William the Bloody no longer has the behavioral modification chip. Currently residing, New Orleans, Louisiana. That was it. No fanfare, no alert. No attempt to stop Spike from killing innocents." Shaking himself from his rant, he continued, "the morning after I found the memo and confronted Elliot about it, my car exploded in front of me. The only reason I wasn't in it was that I stopped to tie my bloody shoelace."

"You think this Watcher guy was behind it?"

"I don't know what else to think, Buffy. They hid the knowledge of Spike's chip from all of us. I can't even begin to fathom his motivations."

"So we've got a bunch of Slayers in training acting like robots, one Slayer who's gone G.I. Jane, and we think the Watcher's Council is trying to kill you. Why can't they just impeach you? Or disbar? De-Watch? Is there a word for Watchers?"

"That's a fairly succinct assessment. How are things here in Sunnydale?"

"Same old, same old. Big Bad we can't find any information on. We only have the word of a vampire who was loony toons the last time anyone saw him. All we know is that it looks like a little girl and doesn't like Faith too much. Considering that no one really likes Faith, that doesn't actually narrow the field."

"You were able to confirm Spike's soul?" Giles still looked as though he was going to reach for his glasses and polish them whenever he said the words Spike and soul in the same sentence.

"Yep. Probably the why behind the trip to roadrunner land." With a sigh, Buffy moved to the couch beside Giles, careful not to disturb his arm.

"And Faith's body?"

Buffy and Dawn exchanged meaningful looks, still unsure of the best course of action concerning Giles. While they both trusted the former Watcher to understand and keep the secret of Faith's return to life, neither wanted to add any more reasons for Giles to be in danger. He might be safer if he didn't know.

"We think he threw the body in the ocean. They may never find it," Dawn lied. "We tried a location spell but it didn't work."

"At least she's at peace now," Giles said diplomatically and finally reached for his glasses. "Faith didn't have an easy life and although many of her problems were the direct consequences of her choices, she was still dealt a difficult hand."

"Yeah." Buffy gnawed on her lower lip, unable to meet Giles' gaze. "And we'll find something. We'll figure it out just like we always do."

"Do you have any idea where Spike is now?"

"We think he headed north." Dawn smiled brightly, this lie coming easier because they had rehearsed it before Giles had arrived. "Clem was the one who talked to him. He mostly just kicked everyone else's ass."

"Dawn." Buffy scowled at her sister.

"Well, he did."

"I'm sorry, Buffy." Giles looked torn between wanting to lecture her and comfort her. "I know you and Spike had a history. It must have been hard for you."

"I'm used to my lovers going homicidal. Do you think it's me? Maybe something in the water?" Buffy grinned with genuine good humor. "Really, guys. I'm fine. All better now. I'm thinking of calling Jerry Springer. Women and their Murderous Demon Boyfriends. Catchy, don't you think?"

"Yes, quite." Giles smiled just a little. "When is the new Slayer coming?"

"Probably after dark. She wanted to meet Willow and Xander for some reason." Buffy left it at that, now even more unsure of why the new Slayer wanted to meet everyone. "They should be back in a couple hours with pizza. Maybe she'll like that. Even psycho Slayers have to eat, right?"

"Maybe she just needs friends," Dawn offered. "Maybe she's really just lonely and the tough attitude is just one of those defense mechanisms."

"Like Faith." Buffy frowned and reconsidered the comparison. "Which isn't a good thing actually. What if she starts killing people?"

"Cara didn't seem like the type to go crazy evil on us. It'll just take time for her to feel comfortable around the gang, that's all."

"I'm sure you're right Dawn. Oh! We could make brownies. Well, you could make brownies. I'll crack the eggs and beat the batter. We'll throw a Welcome to the Hellmouth party."

"That's a very good idea, Buffy." Giles nodded supportively. "The more human interaction she gets, the better."

"One party girl coming up. Will you be alright by yourself?"

"I'm sure I can manage. I have tea."

"Holler if you need anything." Buffy smiled affectionately at her former Watcher before heading into the kitchen with Dawn.


	11. Right As Rain

**Right as Rain**

Cara was still as a statue, her gaze fixed on the phone next to the small hotel bed. It was thirty seconds past the expected time of contact and the cream colored handset had yet to ring. She was anxious to receive her new instructions. Sunnydale had begun to bore her. There was no indication of any of those emotions on her face.

Restlessly, she turned back to the stack of dossiers sitting neatly on the mattress. Information, data, everything there was to know about the strange assortment of beings in Sunnydale. After spending time with them, she was mystified as to how they had survived this long. Perhaps their reason for termination was their blatant stupidity rather than the strategic explanations given to her.

Buffy Summers. Insubordinate and unstable. Refusal to follow orders or accept authority of the council. Incompetence in the field leading to the deaths of innocents. There were even rumors of liaisons with two well-known and vicious vampires. Angelus and William the Bloody.

Rupert Giles. His file read similarly to the Slayer's with the addition of a history of improper use of black magic. He had failed the Cruciamentum, had undermined the authority of other Watchers sent to Sunnydale, and had become a voice of dissention in the Council.

Willow Rosenberg. A powerful but also unstable witch who had tried to destroy the world by raising the temple of Proserpexa five years ago. Since then, the witch had been largely inactive but was still considered a viable threat.

Dawn Summers. The girl wasn't even human. A Key of unknown properties and powers. Considered an enormous liability due to an incident with a Hell God named Glory that had resulted in the disruption of dimensional walls and the unfortunately impermanent death of Buffy Summers.

Xander Harris. The only true human of the group had been unavoidably exposed to the world of Slayers and vampires a decade earlier. He should have been eliminated at that point. Removing him would be part of cleaning up the mess Buffy Summers had made of Sunnydale. Fortunately there weren't any other civilians who required termination.

The shrill ring of the phone cut through the air and she swung around, reaching for the receiver. As soon as it reached her ear, she coded in briskly and waited for her orders.

"Continue surveillance of the targets. A team will be arriving in Sunnydale, approximately forty-eight hours. New Orleans has fallen behind schedule due to unforeseen complications." The phone clicked and her contact was gone.

With a suppressed sigh of frustration, she pulled a small box of ammunition from her knapsack and carefully set her pistols on the bed beside her. The guns needed to be checked, cleaned, and loaded with wooden core bullets. Before starting on those, she began cleaning and sharpening the blades of her dagger and sword. Clean, sharpen, polish, and protect. All good equipment required proper maintenance and the condition of her weapons might determine if she lived or died.

* * *

Waking up to the smell of magic is somewhere between the Maxwell House coffee commercials and a sharp kick in the head. Of course, the pain in my skull could have been from my plunge out of Cable's office window. I'm still a little fuzzy.

Groaning, I pull myself stiffly into a sitting position and try to focus my eyes. I'm on a narrow, army green cot in the back room library of the _Full Moon Rising_ bookstore. My generous host is nowhere to be seen and the outer area of the shop is quiet. Two arms, two legs. Check. Ten fingers, ten toes. Check. I'm all here and even though I feel as though some large animal used the cot as a trampoline, I have to admit that I've seen worse.

The manila folder sits quietly on the desk. I grit my teeth as I reach over and retrieve it. Hunger is making me edgy but I'm too tired and battered to care. Flipping through the contents, I examine them more carefully this time around.

A Slayer Academy. Good for them. There were twelve girls on the list, training and waiting for their call. Memos about instructors and supplies were bound by a paperclip behind the folded blueprints. Labeled as the Watcher's Council Headquarters, I study them thoughtfully. The main library was surrounded by administrative offices. Stairwells in two corners with roof access. Where should I start? Who would have the authority to give the order to kill Faith and kidnap me? Why did the buggers want me anyway?

Frowning, I trace the outline of the Head Watcher's office. They would have had to find someone powerful to cast the projection and powerful people didn't work for nothing. If the owlish bookkeeper was right, it would have been difficult for a lower level Watcher to conceal the spell. But if the plan was carried out with the approval of the Head Watcher, perhaps the entire Council itself, no hiding would be necessary and the cost would not be prohibitive. How likely was it that the entire Council had orchestrated the plot? Fair to mostly sunny, I'm guessing.

Hopefully the odds are in my favor. If the Council backed the plan then they would have left a paper trail even I could follow. I just have to get there and find it. They won't take Faith to the headquarters but the Academy is a possibility. I can't think about how long they'll keep her alive. It just has to be long enough for me to find her.

The shopkeeper smiles cheerfully as he pushes past the heavy curtain. "I brought you some blood."

"Thanks, mate." Taking the glass, I drain it quickly and turn back to the folder.

"I see you've found some of your answers."

"Bloody lot of good it does me." I glance toward him and despite the fact that he still reminds unpleasantly of Doc, he appears to be interested and compassionate. "They took a friend of mine. Sort of. The girl I was supposed to kill." Consciously, I force my hands to loosen their grip on the documents.

"That doesn't bode well."

"It was supposed to be me." A wry smile crosses my lips. "It's always supposed to be me."

"Is there something I can do to help you?"

"You've done enough." I motion to the room. "Thanks for taking me in. Rough night."

"I can imagine." The shopkeeper sits down on the chair at the desk. "Will you go after her?"

"Soon as I can move without coughing up blood." Watching him, I realize that I never asked his name or anything about him during my last visit. "Don't mean to be unfriendly. What do I call you?"

"Friends call me Verek."

"Am I a friend?"

"I'd like to hope so." He's still smiling brightly.

I test a few of my ribs. Sore, painful, but healing. I'll be good as new in a few days. I can't worry about Giles or Sunnydale. I want to believe he wouldn't be part of anything so despicable. I have to believe. Faith needs me more than the Hellmouth does.

Verek watches me somberly for a moment before speaking. "I'm sorry for your troubles."

"So am I." Shaking off my worry about Dawn and the Scoobies, I reorganize the contents of the folder and close it gently. "I have to get to England. What time is it?" As I stand up I realize I don't know how long I've been unconscious.

"Almost sunset."

I've slept all day at least. Not hungry enough to be more than one. That's good. I'll have to call Charlie and let him know I'll be out of town for a few days. He'll probably think I'm making up for all the sex I haven't been getting these last few years. "Thanks again."

"These people who have your friend. Why did they want her dead?" Always the curious one, that strange little shopkeeper.

"She went rogue. Didn't play nice with the other children. Didn't play at all from what I hear, don't know the details of it all. Took out a few people and ended up in jail."

"And they wanted to kill her for disobeying them?"

"Betraying them. That's what their messenger bitch said." Still weak and with my head starting to spin, I sit back down on the cot. Can't leave the store until dark anyway. "There's something else to it though. I can feel it."

"There usually is. A good puzzle has layers. Each time you peel one back, you discover something new." Verek absently taps one finger on the cover of a book.

"I feel like they're running me in bloody circles. The little girl. Trying to kidnap me. It makes no sense." Rubbing my forehead at the unanswered questions clanging like church bells in my head, I try to get past my frantic worry. I have to think clearly. I have to figure it out.

"And you believe there are answers in England?"

"I hope so."

"I can help you with that." He stands up slowly. "I can open a portal for you, if you know where you're going."

"A portal?"

"Yes. I do believe I saw a map in that folder." Dark eyes twinkle with enthusiasm. "I just need a few things."

Quickly, I try to do the time conversion in my head. It's already past midnight in London. Pulling out the blueprints, I scan them once more, trying to commit the layout to memory.

"This will take a minute." Verek pulls out a stick of charcoal, tracing a dark circle on the floor in one corner big enough for one person to stand in. Patting his trouser pockets, he produces a small disk. "A talisman. Like a homing device. The portal will be active for twelve hours. It will open when the talisman comes near it." Handing me the talisman, he turns back toward the wall and begins to chant softly.

I watch with curiosity and apprehension as the air begins to thicken and shimmer like heat waves above the highway. The boundary expands, stretching out into the room until it is just wide enough, just tall enough, to fit a single man. In my case, a single vampire. Glancing quickly at Verek, I see that his eyes are closed and there is a peaceful expression on his face. The talisman weighs heavily in my pocket as I stand up. Fixing an image of Faith steadfastly in my mind, I step forward and into the shimmering air. Wind rushes past my ears and my stomach feels as though it's falling through space faster than the rest of my body. Another step and the world comes racing back around me.

The sun is long gone and sounds of the London nightlife are suddenly and urgently clamoring in my ears. I blink quickly as my eyes adjust to the change, taking in the narrow street around me. Hopefully Verek's portal has put me somewhere in the neighborhood of the Watcher's Headquarters. As much as I'd like to see London again, I really don't have the time to find out firsthand just how much the city has grown.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I step out onto the street and look around. If my memory serves, I'm only a short jaunt around the corner and down the block from the Headquarters. Blending into the crowd is easy. London is such a wild mix of colors and people that the more you stand out, the more you fit in.

A familiar gray stone building sits at the end of the street, waving a flag innocently. It looks like a bank. Probably pretends to be something less devious and underhanded during the daylight hours. Heavy wood doors slung with brass handles open into a darkened central lobby. The night guard glances up at me briefly, measuring me and assessing the risk before he turns his eyes back to the monitors at the desk.

"Evening, sir," he says blandly when I approach him.

"Looking for the Watchers."

"I'm sorry, sir. There are only offices in this building. Bank of London and Investment Securities." I knew it. Do all evil organizations pretend to be banks? Maybe it's easier to launder money that way.

"Too bad." I head toward the door marked Stairwell. There are only three stories. One of them has to be the bloody headquarters.

"Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." He moves out from behind the desk, one hand on the baton hanging from his belt.

"I haven't got time for this." I scowl at him angrily. As soon as he gets close enough to grab, I switch to my game face and grab hold of his lapels. "This is the part where I hit you and you fall down. Understand?" The terrified guard nods rapidly, flinching back as I release him. My fist clips his jaw and he crumples onto the marble floors.

"Sorry 'bout the headache, mate." Shaking off my demon face, I drag his limp body behind the desk. One of the security monitors is labeled WC Library and I'm betting WC doesn't stand for the loo. Third floor.

The only noise is the soft padding of my footsteps as I head up the stairs, alert for the presence of any human beings. Solitary darkness and the sounds of a sleeping building are all that greet me. Third floor begins with a heavy metal door that swings shut with a whisper and a resonating bell tone as it hits the strike plate behind me. Carpeted floors muffle any noise I might have made creeping down the hallway. At the end, in the northwest corner of the building is the office I'm looking for. Head Watcher. Head Wanker.

It's locked, providing me an outlet for some of the frustration and rage. Kicking the door down splinters the wooden frame and nearly rips out the hinges. The interior of the office is that of a typical ostentatious bureaucrat. Desk, filing cabinets, leather chair. Everything is neatly in place. Maybe I'll rip it apart before I leave. It feels like the right thing to do.

Grimly determined, I start with the desk. It's filled with papers, pencils, and an assortment of administrative documents. Supply notices, invoices, memos, and a few orders done in triplicate. Flipping on the desk lamp, I move to the filing cabinets.

On drawer number five, I hit pay dirt. Personnel files on all Watchers and Slayers, including potential Slayers. Thumbing through the folders, I notice a large brown folder labeled Sunnydale. Pulling it out of the drawer, I sit down at the desk and begin to rifle through the contents.

One manila folder is labeled Faith. Sliding it onto the desk, I glance through the contents. Pictures, biographical information, physical description. There's a summary sketch and assessment of her abilities as a Slayer. At the bottom of the page, something catches my eye. Recommended Course of Action: Termination. It was signed and dated a year ago. Only a year? The little bint had appeared three years ago. Unable to explain the discontinuity, I turn back to the folder and remove the remaining files.

There's a folder for Buffy and all of the Scoobies, even Tara and Anya. Uneasily, I begin looking through those folders as well. I freeze as I glance down at Buffy's assessment. Recommended Course of Action: Termination. Also signed a year ago. Feeling the first tickle of panic beginning at the base of my spine, I check all of the folders. My hands are shaking. All of them had the same terrifying result. They didn't just want Faith dead, they wanted the whole Scooby gang six feet under. The last folder has my name on it. Recommended Course of Action: Contain for observation and experimentation. They were going to turn me into sodding lab rat. Again. Did I have a fucking neon sign above my head that read Poke Me, Prod Me, Turn Me Into Your Goddamn Science Project?

Stuffing the files back into the dark folder, I move back to the filing cabinets. What the hell was going on? I could understand their grudge against Faith and even Buffy. But Harris? And Dawn? Just thinking about them going after Dawn makes my blood burn, exciting the demon and threatening to destroy my concentration. The answers have to be here. Somewhere. Hundreds of useless files later, I'm beginning to get anxious.

Frustrated, I shut the last drawer and step back to look around the office once more. There is a row of pictures along a shelf on the far side of the room. Hard to imaging the man signing the death warrants of so many innocent people having a family. What kind of a husband does that? What kind of father? What kind of man? Crossing to the shelves, I pick up one of the framed photos. A tall, dark haired man smiles out at me, his arm around a teenage girl with his eyes. She looks happy and carefree. Placing it back gently, my hand moves to the next picture. A family. Man and wife and the girl again.

One of the frames has been turned over, laying face down on the shelf. Picking it up, I turn it over and my blood turns to ice. Staring out of the photograph is a little girl in a blue overcoat, red galoshes, and a matching hat. She's smiling, brown eyes wide with wonder and innocence. My Cheshire cat. The bastard had used his daughter's image. I can't begin to understand the fury that consumes me. The frame cracks in my hands, shattering the glass. What kind of man? What kind of monster?

Shaking with rage, I hurl the photograph across the room and begin the utter destruction of the office. It's strangely cathartic to rip the drawers from the cabinets and scatter the papers across the floor. Violently wishing for a liter of gasoline and my cigarette lighter, I flip over the desk and dismantle it piece by piece, leaving a large footprint through the top. If I could burn down the whole building, I would. I'm about to put one boot angrily through the side panel of the computer when I remember that Willow could probably find something valuable in there. Peeling away the cover, I stare at the guts of the machine for a moment. Which is the bloody hard drive? The desk lamp is hanging onto life by a thread, flickering in the darkness as I pull it over to illuminate the beast of wires and silicon. By process of elimination that consists mostly of randomly guessing, I extract one of the larger metal boxes and wedge it into the folder with the rest of the files.

Calming slightly, I run my fingers through my hair and try to focus my thoughts. I still have to find Faith. Time is running out for her and probably the Scoobies as well. Frowning, I consider searching the other offices briefly, but the important files would have been kept by the Head Watcher and I have them in my hand. They would have to send someone to Sunnydale to kill the entire Scooby gang and the termination order was a year old. Why were they still alive?

Cable's voice echoes in my head. They're not training Slayers. They're training assassins. My eyes widen and my stomach falls. They needed Faith dead so they could send another Slayer to the Hellmouth. A Slayer who had been trained under the new regime. A Slayer who was little more than a hired gun for the Council.

Terrified and furious, I storm out of the office and down the hallway. There are still a couple hours of darkness to travel the three blocks to the Slayer Academy and look for Faith. I was racing against the clock now. The new Slayer would already be in Sunnydale, probably waiting for the final order to execute the unwanted variables. It was cold, inhuman.

Stairs fly by, the door slamming behind me a second before I'm out of the building and running down the sidewalk. The guard at the Academy door doesn't even get a word in before I knock him to the ground and break the door down. Why do they insist on using public buildings where any old vampire could just barge in? Not that I expect more from a bunch of stuffed shirts with no humanity and room temperature IQs.

A young girl in pajamas is standing at the bottom of the lobby stairs, a book in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She stares at me impassively; the only emotion showing is the hint of fear in her eyes.

"I'm looking for Faith." I hold out the picture from the Slayer's file. "Have you seen her?" She doesn't say anything, just watches me silently. "Answer me." The direct order seems to reach her and she shakes her head.

"Who's in charge here?" No answer. I try again. "Tell me who's in charge."

"Ms. Bollington," she responds stiffly.

"Tell me where she is."

"Two doors to the left."

"Go back to bed." I watch her head up the stairs, disgusted and unnerved by the girl's strange behavior. The hallway on my left is dark. Two doors down, a faint light shines from beneath the door. Knocking sharply, I lean forward to hear someone moving around inside.

"Is that you Maria? Come in." Ms. Bollington is an older woman, dignified and conservative even in the pale lavender robe tied tightly over her nightgown. It's nearly three in the morning. "Who are you? How did you get in here?" she demands angrily.

"I don't have time to chat. I'm looking for this girl." Holding up the picture of Faith, I see recognition in her eyes.

"Are you family?"

"You could say that."

"Well, I'm very sorry, sir. She's dead. There was a boating accident."

"Where is she now?" I ask slowly, my voice harsh with anger.

"The body was not recovered, sir." She's frowning at me suspiciously. "If I could direct you to my superiors, perhaps they could better answer your questions."

"Bloody hell, you stupid bitch." My patience has just run out. "She's not dead and someone around here has to know where she is."

"She's quite dead, sir." Ms. Bollinton glares at me, folding her arms defensively. "I can assure you of that."

Switching tactics, I smile coldly and step forward, pushing the woman back into the room. "I know a new Slayer was called. Because I'm the one who killed the last one." Changing to my game face, I add a growl for emphasis.

"William the Bloody," she whispers, eyes wide with terror.

"One and the same." She feels small and fragile, my hands circling her biceps completely as I grab her. "Now tell me where she is."

"I-I don't know." She shakes her head quickly. "We were told she was dead. Another girl was called. I don't know." The desperation in her voice is too real to be a lie.

"Where's the Head Watcher?"

"The States. He's gone to California. This evening."

I release her with a rough shove, sending her stumbling back against her desk. "Would anyone else know where she is?"

"I don't know." Ms. Bollington is shivering, tears shining in her eyes. "Mr. Elliot was meeting someone in New Orleans. They were going to Sunnydale together."

New Orleans. I close my eyes, teeth grinding together. Another goddamn, mother-fucking goose chase. Faith had never left New Orleans. I was going to rip that bastard Cable's head off if I ever saw him again.

My feet pound against the pavement as I sprint back to the narrow alley where the portal opened. If the wanker had left this evening, there would be a precious few hours before he landed. Faith would still be there until then. The air begins to shimmer as I enter the alley and barrel through the portal, crashing into the desk as I reappear in the small room at the back of the bookstore.

"Are you alright?" Verek blinks, his eyes tired and concerned.

"Fine. Will you hold on to this for me?" I toss the folder to him. "I have to go kill someone."

"Good luck."

"Don't need it."

* * *

Everything was blurry. Was there something wrong with her eyes or had the world just gone out of focus? Blinking helped a little. Enough for Faith to realize that she was back in the cage. At least the sadistic bastard wasn't thinking up new and fun ways to piss her off. The rumbling of her stomach reminded her that she was hungry, only to trigger the gag reflex at the taste of blood in her mouth. Hunger, nausea. At some point they became one and the same.

Wincing against the pain and stiffness in her body, she rolled onto her stomach and began the slow, caterpillar-like movements that would get her to her knees. Her head bumped painfully against the top of the cage and she scowled. Damn, that hurt too. Everything fucking hurt.

Rage and desperation overrode the pain in her wrists as she strained against the straps binding her hands. True, he had caught her the first time. And one of the idiot vampires with ridiculous hair had caught her the second time. But she was damn well going to get out of here and kick every one of their asses. If they thought they'd beaten her, they were dead wrong.

One of the straps slipped, allowing her just enough wiggle room to contort her fingers and get a tenuous grip on the edge. Biting down hard to keep from crying out, she wrenched her hands free, convulsing from the pain singing through her arms. Tackling the ropes around her feet, she quickly had them undone and moved to the doorway of the cage. A centimeter at a time, she bent the wires away from the bar. At the very least, when she finally got out of here, she'd have the patience of God. If there was a God anyway.

Something was happening outside her prison. The vamps had been restless all day, moving crates, bickering, and for the most part avoiding her. She was guessing that it wasn't a good sign for her. It either meant more travel in the somewhat dicey lodgings of her cage or the end of the road. If they thought she'd go quietly then they were in for a surprise; there was no way she was going to die without a fight. The hole was large enough to slip her arm through but she couldn't reach the padlock. Leaning back, she braced herself with her hands and kicked both feet against the wires. They bent and deformed. The hole got larger. Another kick. One more.

Trying to avoid the sharp ends, she slowly eased her head and shoulders through the opening. Sucking in her breath, she balanced on hands and toes as she pulled her abdomen carefully through. Wires cut into her pants. One leg at a time. She tumbled to the ground, exhausted and trembling, but she was free. From the cage at least.

Pieces of the chair still littered the floor and she felt better with the cool wood in her hand. Unevenly, she started up the stairs, holding onto the wall for balance. She was weak from lack of food. Although being tortured might have something to do with it. At least she still had her sense of humor; she chalked up a victory on her side. It was something.

She was in a warehouse. It smelled of mold and damp concrete, with the stereotypical soundtrack of skittering rodent claws and creaking steel. The dark hallway led to an open floor piled high with wooden crates. Catwalks crossed overhead and dim light shone from a handful of offices on the upper level. There were voices coming from one of the rooms, angry and loud. She crouched in the shadows, her head was spinning and consciousness was dangerously close to abandoning her. If she could just make it out through to one of the loading docks.

A body crashed through a window above her, turning to dust a moment before it struck the catwalk. She crept along the side, staying behind the crates, one eye watching the commotion warily. Another vampire stumbled out the door, swearing and shouting at someone behind him.

"Where is she?" Spike's growl rang through the warehouse.

"Cage...downstairs," the vamp choked out, struggling against the hands on his throat. He disappeared into a cloud of dust.

Faith sunk to the ground with relief. He had come for her. He had found her. She didn't have the energy to laugh even though she wanted to. Didn't even have the energy to call out to him. Her hand flew to her hair as she remembered what her tormentor had done to it. Oh god. She didn't want him to see her like this. Her face. She hadn't even seen the damage to her face. Tears stung her skin as they fell and she curled into a ball, head against her knees. Unable to do anything but fall apart, she leaned against the crate and wept.

* * *

The smell of Faith's blood sends me hurrying down the metal stairs. I start through the maze of crates, trying to find her. A quiet sob catches my ears, someone's crying. Left. Right. There's a small figure curled up on the ground.

"Faith?" I move forward cautiously, unsure. Her long dark hair has been cut off in irregular chunks and the scent of blood is overpowering. She pulls away when I touch her shoulder. "Faith? Luv. We need to get out here." She turns her face away from me. Tenderly, I pull her right arm away from her knees, shocked by the condition of her wrists. They're raw, bloody, and I can see exposed bone. Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her into my arms. She's trembling and almost weightless.

Quickly, I make my way through the warehouse floor and into the night. The air is cool and her shivering almost subsides as I hurry through one of the back alleys, taking a shortcut to the bookstore.

"Spike." Her voice is so quiet I almost don't hear it.

"Faith?"

"Did you kill him? The man? Ethan...Ethan Rayne."

"Only vamps, luv." I scowl into the night.

"Good." There's a hint of remaining strength in her voice. "Want to kill the son of a bitch myself."

"He's the one who did this to you?"

"Yeah."

My belief in the goodness of mankind has been officially and forever torn to shreds, stomped on, burned to ash, and thrown out the proverbial window. I don't want to be a man. I don't want to be part of anything that would do what I'm holding in my arms. Glancing down, her pale face is only partially hidden by her savaged hair and what I can see makes me sick. There are large jagged gashes over her cheekbones and forehead and most of her face is covered with dried blood. Her right eye is swollen and both lips are split. Looking closer, I see cuts and burn marks down her neck and shoulders, supplemented with bruises.

The bell jingles, signaling that I'm back in the safety of the bookstore. "Verek?"

My unlikely friend and ally looks up from the counter and blinks his dark eyes. "I see you found her."

"I need to get her cleaned up. Food, water. Bandages." I flash him a grateful look when he nods. I owe him more than I will ever be able to repay.

"Take her upstairs. The bathroom's on the right." He motions toward a set of stairs disappearing to the second floor.

Cradling her against my chest, I move up the stairs as fast as I dare, trying not to disturb her. Above the bookstore is a cozy, inviting apartment with plush carpet and stacks of books scattered about. The bathroom is clean and surprisingly spacious. A thick burgundy rug covers the center of the beige tile floor. Laying her down gently, I move to the bathtub and begin running water. Only warm. Hot water would probably do more damage.

I brush my hand against her battered face. "Faith, luv...I need to get you cleaned up." She nods almost imperceptibly. "Promise you won't stake me later." The barest hint of a smile ghosts across her lips and she nods again.

The tank top she's wearing is ripped and stiff with blood. Resorting to scissors, I cut it gingerly from her body. Her back is covered with welts and knife trails, one long slice crosses her stomach. Black leather pants cut away to reveal bruises, some of them the size of fists. My hands are shaking with fury and horror as I gently lower her into the bathtub. She shivers and I can see the pain on her face as the water hits her wounds.

"Sorry, luv. As soon as you get some food in you, I promise I'll round up some painkillers." Soaking a soft hand towel, I gently wash away the dried blood from her body. Holding the back of her head, I clean her face, watching her eye lashes flutter with each stroke. Her hair is last and I slowly massage shampoo into the dark locks. The water is rust colored with her blood.

"It's a good look for you, pet," I comment, trying to keep my voice steady. "Even it up a bit and you'll be good as new." I don't have the heart to tell her something ridiculous about the fact that hair grows. It's not about the hair. He cut it as part of his attempt to disfigure her. To break her. Just one more way that he violated her. At least it looks like he got off on pain and torture the old fashioned way.

She shakes her head faintly and her eyes open. "How bad is it?" I watch her fight against tears.

"You look beautiful," I whisper, smiling down at her as I wash the shampoo from her hair. It's true. She's so strong. Powerful. The strength I see in her is humbling.

She tries to smile and closes her eyes again. "Liar."

"Food next. Think you can eat?" When she grimaces I realize that she's probably sick from swallowing her own blood. "We'll start with water." Slipping one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her neck, I lift her from the tub and onto a towel. Drying her skin, taking care not to break open any of the healing wounds, I finish by wrapping her in a soft blanket Verek left on the sink counter. With my help, she manages to choke down a glass of water, pausing a couple of times to spit out mouthfuls of bloody water. There's a small living area outside the bathroom. I lay her onto the couch and pull another blanket over her to keep her warm before searching out Verek.

The bookworm is heating broth on a small stove in the kitchen and I notice several bags of blood on a card table. "If I can ever repay you," my voice breaks.

"I'm sure you'll find a way." Verek smiles as he pours the broth into a mug. "How is she?"

"Bastard worked her over pretty good." I take the mug, pausing before I head back to Faith. "She'll heal. But her face..." I stop again, shaking my head sadly.

"I have some herbs that might help. I'll make an ointment for her."

"You've already done so much, Verek."

He smiles serenely at my protest. "We fight the good fight, Spike. We can never do enough. That doesn't mean we don't do everything we can." In his own enigmatically profound way, I think he's just summed up the only thing that makes life worth living.

Returning to Faith, I help her sip the broth, one hand behind her head to support her and the other holding the mug against her lips. Color is gradually coming back to her cheeks and she finishes off the broth without choking.

"Good girl." Setting the mug down, I pull her against my chest, holding her as tightly as I dare.

She looks like a ball of cotton pads and surgical tape by the time I'm through with her. Each wound carefully cleaned and dabbed with the salve provided by Verek, then wrapped and covered protectively. One of our host's oxford shirts fits her snugly and I've wrapped a blanket around her waist as a makeshift skirt. With Verek's help, I slowly begin work on her hair, evening the lines and shaping it into a boyish cut. Wearily I put the scissors away and clean up the discarded hair. My own wounds ache painfully and my mind is still searching for a plan.

She coughs, obviously in pain. "Need to get to Sunnydale."

"I know. I know." Stroking her hair, I press a soft kiss against her forehead comfortingly. "We have some time. You need to rest."

"How'd you find me?"

"Cracked a few skulls. The usual."

"Knew you'd come." Her voice has a tremor in it. "You'd save me."

"Looked like you were doing a pretty good job of escaping all on your own." I smile, closing my eyes and leaned back against the cushions. "Rest now, luv."

"I'll be alright?" The question surprises me. Her voice is soft and I can see that she's already half asleep.

"Right as rain, pet. Right as rain." I gratefully accept a glass of blood from the shopkeeper, unwilling to leave the resting Slayer curled against me. Longingly, I wish for a human body temperature so that I can keep her warm. Hopefully she'll be too tired to have nightmares. I'm sure they'll come eventually. Probably for months after this ordeal is over. My jaw clenches with anger as I look down at her, still shaken by the damage.

"She's a brave girl," Verek says softly from the chair across the room. There's a large, ancient book open on his lap and his glasses have slipped down to the end of his nose.

"Yeah." I can't put into words everything I feel. Respect, admiration. There aren't words powerful enough to describe what she is.

"You should sleep as well."

"I know." Stretching my stiff muscles, I place the empty glass next to the mug on the floor and settle onto my side, pulling Faith against my chest. Right now, all that matters is keeping her safe, keeping her protected. They had come for me and taken her. Her wounds were because of me. Because I had said yes, because I had gone to Sunnydale. Just because of me.

My mind is starting to get fuzzy and I suspect that Verek added something to the blood he brought me. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to slip into sleep, cradling Faith in my arms.


	12. Monsters

**Monsters**

Someone's arm was wrapped around Faith's waist. Strong, male. Her first impulse was to tense in anticipation of the stinging pain of a blade or a zippo lighter. Maybe the asshole had treated himself to an early Christmas present and splurged on that chainsaw he saw in the window. But the arm didn't move and when she opened her eyes the wire cage had been replaced by a softly lit apartment even Mr. Rogers would have been proud of.

Soft fabric rubbed against her legs, warm and soothing. Tentatively, she touched the arm around her. Cool skin. Room temperature. That meant vampire and vampire meant Spike. It seemed like an eternity passed as she stared incredulously at the pale skin. Strong, angular fingers splayed across her stomach, steel corded tendons connecting undead tissue and bone. She had never really wondered how the demon inside reanimated the body, kept them young and beautiful. If they'd been beautiful in the first place.

Both of her wrists had been expertly bandaged and she could feel the telltale pull of surgical tape on her face, neck, and torso. Muscles were still tense, wondering if this was just a dream or hallucination. Any minute she would wake up in her godforsaken cage and fight for her life. Fighting to live. Was that what this whole crazy world was about? She'd fought because she liked it. Liked the charge, the power, the rush it gave her. Fought because she wanted to hurt and destroy the way she had been hurt and destroyed. Lashing out because it was the only way to drown out the quiet voice nagging her from the lost childhood she'd never had. But she'd never had to fight so hard just to keep breathing.

Her thumb began to trace a slow arc along the back of Spike's hand. She watched it, as though it wasn't an extension of her. Someone else's hand, someone else's thumb. He was still as death against her back, not warm but not cold either. Just there, solid and comforting. As long as he was asleep she didn't have to pretend or put up walls or be something she wasn't. She didn't even know what she was. She'd never paid any attention to the tight-ass Watcher lectures about her sacred calling or speculation on the origin of the Slayers. It was the killing, the chase, and the hunt that she had wanted. The adrenaline that flooded, cleared, wiped clean everything inside her.

This, peace and relaxation, was foreign. When had a man ever held her like this? She was protected. God, she was safe. She felt safe. He had found her, fought for her. He didn't even know her. Was this what had drawn Buffy to the vampire? The sense of security and power. She wanted to roll over, press her face against his chest, be so wrapped up in his arms that nothing would ever touch her again.

She didn't. Couldn't. Muscles wouldn't move, still frozen by the same old fears that had followed her into prison and right back out again. Every moment was a war against the Old Faith, still threatening to raise her ugly face and spread blood with her poisonous touch. It wasn't her. She was different now, had changed. Clinging to that was all that had kept her sane in prison. She wasn't that girl. Not anymore. Never again. Old Faith was gone. Dead. Drowned in the Pacific by a vampire. This life belonged to New Faith. If she could just hold on tight enough, push Old Faith down hard enough.

Maybe that's why Angel had understood her when Buffy couldn't. Buffy didn't have a dark side. Buffy was whole and complete where Faith had been split, fractured into two immiscible personalities. Buffy had had years to develop coherence, a lifetime to gel and self-discover. Faith was a newborn, still crawling on her knees and searching for a place to call home, a face to call hers, and an emotion that didn't taste of ashes.

Too much thinking. She shook her head, trying to clear the somber discourse her mind was delving into. Thoughts had never been her friends. They were such lousy guests, never helping to clean up after the party and always sucking the life out of you. All she wanted was for this moment to last a bit longer, keeping the darkness and pain at bay enough for her to rest. That was all she wanted, to rest.

Old Faith twitched and lewdly suggested that she make the most of the situation to check out what exactly had kept Buffy going back for more. New Faith scowled, closing her eyes tightly against the unbidden images her fertile imagination was all too willing to supply. There was nothing seductive about his embrace, nothing sexual in his touch. She was not going to go after another one of Buffy's men. No way in hell, not if her fucking life depended on it. If she could possibly find someone who had never even laid eyes on Buffy, she'd take him. Second Hand Faith had been kicked out the door with Old Faith and she wasn't going to accept any cast offs. Not anymore.

She almost moved away, wanting to throw his arm off of her and scream to the whole world that it just wasn't fair. Wasn't fair that she was always second best, a step behind Buffy, a day late and a dollar short. Did she do it on purpose? Was there some sick part of her that thrilled at the rejection? Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to roll away from him. He followed, his hand twisting, palm down on the couch beneath them and sliding up to her bicep. Fingers curled around her arm just below her shoulder. She was completely trapped now and could feel the pressure of his cheek against the back of her neck.

With a frown, she looked for a way to disentangle herself from his limbs. As wonderful as it felt to be cherished and protected, it was too much. It was too good. She didn't deserve to feel this way. She didn't deserve to feel loved. Tears stung her eyes and she bit her bottom lip to keep them away, wincing as the already wounded skin protested this latest attack.

At least she was ugly on the outside now, matching the inside. She needed to find a mirror and see for herself what the bastard had done to her. Vaguely, she remembered Spike saying she was beautiful. So reassuring, so gentle. So wrong. She was ugly, inside and out. Ugly with hatred and despair. Couldn't he see it?

She had to get away from him. Panic was starting to build, sending shivers through her nervous system and preparing to incite violence if need be. She could push him away, hit him if she had to. Kick, punch. It was simple. Shove him off of her, show him how ugly she was. Hit him until he struck her back. Until he hurt her the way she deserved to be hurt, deserved to be punished. Anything but his tenderness. Pain bit a thousand bantam teeth into skin and muscle when she finally began to move, pulling his arm away from her and struggling to find her balance as she tumbled from the couch. She just had to get away. Her head was swimming as she teetered across the room, searching out the bathroom she hazily remembered.

There was a stranger's face in the mirror. Short dark hair and the wide, terrified eyes of a little girl pretending to have grown up and figured everything out. Still the scared little girl desperate for love. She tore at the bandages covering her wounds, tears spilling from dark eyes as she unveiled Ethan Rayne's masterpiece. Someone was sobbing uncontrollably. Was that her? She could feel her lungs choking on air, fighting for breath as she shook her head in fierce denial, horrified at the destruction of her beauty.

Nothing was left but angry, wretched carvings in her skin like a spider's web of blood and bits of flesh. Bruises over her eyes, cheekbones, and the bridge of her nose. Swollen lips crusted with dried blood. A morbid, sickening patchwork quilt staring out at her with a child's eyes. Who would want her now? Her knees buckled and she sunk to the floor, violently shaking with the force of her sobs. No one would ever want her. No one would ever love her. Who could love the hideous monster she had seen in the mirror? How could she face anyone again, looking like a creature from a bad horror movie? Her fists pounded ineffectually against the cupboard, cheek pressed against the cool surface.

Strong, consoling arms surrounded her, pulling her tightly against his chest and stroking her butchered hair. Soft words fell over her, whispered against her skin. Quieting her, holding her like a precious treasure instead of a monster.

"I've got you." He was rocking her, cradling her in his lap, speaking to the frightened child behind her eyes.

What would become of her? What would happen when she tried to smile at someone, only to watch them look away and pretend they hadn't seen her at all. She would be a pariah, a leper, an outcast even among outcasts. How could he look at her? How could he touch something so hideous?

"Faith." He was saying her name with that honey gravel voice that could be anything and everything in a woman's ears. How could it sound so beautiful coming from his lips? Fingers brushed away her tears, light as butterfly wings against her skin. Couldn't he see she was broken? Ruined? "Faith, luv. Don't let him win."

She turned her face away, ashamed by her ugliness, her voice destroyed by the shuddering sobs venting a lifetime of unshed tears. The world was crashing down around her, only pain and harsh light filling her, blinding her.

"Faith." Cool hands caught her face, blue eyes hazy through her tears. "You're beautiful."

"Y-you're fucking c-crazy," she managed to choke out between sobs. "L-look at me. I'm a f-freak show."

"I am looking at you." Fingers trailed through her hair and she watched as his human face melted away, revealing the ridges and bumps of his demon. Fangs glistened as he smiled, yellow replacing sapphire. "Got you beat for ugly hands down." His voice was huskier and richer in this form.

She laughed. Just a little. It wasn't that far away from crying after all. "At least yours goes away."

"You'll heal." Vampire eyes blinked. "I've been around for one hundred and thirty two years, Faith. I know a beautiful woman when I see one." Lips curled around sharp canine teeth. "And the woman in my arms right now is gorgeous. She's unbelievable."

"You're a sap." She tapped his shoulder weakly with her fist, sniffing and wiping her eyes with embarrassment. "Sorry to go all needy female on you." Old Faith was digging in her heels, disgusted by the display of weakness and mortified by her acceptance of his comfort. New Faith gagged her and shoved her into a closet, burying her face in Spike's neck and holding onto him tightly. He was a lifeline of hope and sanity in the devastated wasteland of her psyche. Her voice wasn't even loud enough to be a whisper. "Hold me."

"I've got you, Faith. I've got you."

She closed her eyes, collapsing into his embrace. She didn't need to be strong in his arms, didn't need to hide from him. She was falling. He would catch her.

* * *

I had slept all day, curled up against Faith, soaking up her warmth and life like a lizard basking in the heat of the sun. Had woken to find her gone and then found her on the bathroom floor, breaking into pieces because of what he had done to her. There were no words for the type of monster who had taken a knife to her face. And there was nothing I could do to take away her pain or bring back her flawless skin.

She was sleeping when darkness settled over the city, tear stained and exhausted from her inner turmoil and physical torture. It would be at least one more night before she would be ready to travel. Unable to contain my rage at her violation and my own impotence, I took to the streets determined to vent my pain the only way I knew how.

The warehouse where I found her is the first stop. All I see is blood and dust as I tear through the building, destroying anything and anyone within reach. Drawn to the basement by the scent of her blood, I find the cage. The ropes that bound her hands. Pieces of a broken chair. I can see what was done to her. I can taste the pain and hatred in the air. Wire cuts into my hands as I rip into the cage, tearing away strips of metal and hurling them as far as vampire strength allows.

Where's Dru when you need her to come up with some hare-brained scheme to suck the world into hell? Where's Angelus when you need him to pull it off? This world doesn't deserve to exist. Men don't deserve to live. Humanity and all its nobility is just a facade for a demon more depraved than anything that lives within me. They are the real monsters, hiding behind innocence and false pretenses. Playing at compassion and mercy while their cruelty is ignored, unnoticed, even tolerated. I hate this fucking world. Down to the last blade of grass and cherubic two year old with golden curls and deceitful purity. There is no such thing as innocence. No man who wouldn't turn against his friends and neighbors for the right about of money or a good lay. No woman who wouldn't claw and manipulate for god knows what.

All I know, standing there in the ruin of what had been Faith's hell, is that I have never felt such rage. My fist connects with the concrete wall, breaking skin and bones and finally cutting through to the pain and guilt inside. Why Faith? What had she done to deserve this? I hadn't really saved her. I had only kept her alive. She would look in the mirror every day of her life and know that I hadn't saved her. That I had failed her.

I can't even give her revenge. The bastard who tarnished her beauty is long gone, leaving only demons and vampires to suffer for his sins. Tears are bitter; burning like acid down my face and darkening patches of the concrete. I'm raw; every emotion is sandpaper abrading my tattered soul.

Slumping down against the wall, my eyes stare unfocused at the wall in front of me, not seeing the water stains and graffiti. Seeing only the brutal torture the walls had witnessed. At the hands of a man. Just a man. Flesh, blood, and bone. A man with a soul. A soul he didn't deserve. Hands he didn't deserve to move, breath he didn't deserve to draw, a heart that didn't deserve to beat.

Tired and drained, I lean my head against the concrete and close my eyes. I have clung to this life when there was nothing left for me, nothing to keep me here. Taken lives, saved lives, rained down both vengeance and protection during a life that now seems too long. How peaceful it would have been to have simply died in that alley, drained but not turned. Or to have lived out my life, never seeing the other side of this world, never knowing the depths people were willing to sink to. I had bitterly told Clem years ago that Buffy would never lower herself far enough to be with me. Who was actually beneath who? Where was it written that mortals owned this world and demons were the parasites? What law kept them steadfastly riveted on the moral high ground? Had she come down or had I? Had I lowered myself to be with her?

How can there be a God? How can there be anything good in this world if there are men like this? Why fight for this world? Why not send the whole bloody thing to Hell with a pat on the head and a Thank-You fruit basket for the Devil himself? Why do demons run from a Slayer when the real monsters walk around unfettered and protected?

What am I fighting for?

* * *

The stained pizza flyer burned a hole in Kraqin's pocket as he hurried through the darkened streets. Scrawled on the vibrant neon pink were the three words that had tipped the demon community on its head. William the Bloody. A quick phone call had reaffirmed that the souled vampire known as Angel was still merrily dispatching demons on the Pacific Coast.

No one had believed him. He hadn't believed it himself. But he had seen the soul, its golden glow swirling around the vampire, reflecting in blue eyes where there should have been nothing but the darkness of the demon within. William the Bloody had a soul.

It changed everything. That was the understatement of the eon. It damn well took the snow globe by the base and shook the stuffing out of it. The vampire might as well have rearranged the cosmos or marched through the gates of Heaven to mingle with the angels. This world was not so much screwed as, well, completely fucked.

Spike's recent rampage through the city had done little to ease anyone's mind. What was the vampire doing? As far as Kraqin could tell, William the Bloody was acting like William the Bloody Maniac. He'd cut a swath of carnage and destruction across the city, leaving demons and vamps alike either running for the hills or plotting his untimely demise. Something had set the vampire off his rocker. Whatever it was, it needed to be fixed before the New Orleans underground took a serious hit. Even Cable had gone into hiding. Granted, Cable was a leech and a sadist, and no one was really sad to see the coward tuck his tail between his legs. But anything that could scare the Armani clad poser was something to be feared and avoided at all costs.

"There's a balance," Kraqin mumbled as he knocked three short raps on the back door of the club. "Doesn't he understand? Balance is shot to hell now."

"Password."

"Aperio, gartaka-breath."

"No need to be insulting," a polite voice responded.

He heard the bolt slide away and the door swung open, revealing a tall, reptilian demon with bright eyes and a narrow snout. "Where's Chronos?"

"Lounge," the guard answered simply, shutting the door firmly behind them.

"Drinking martinis like he's got all the time in the universe, no doubt. As if we didn't have enough problems to fill the Great Schism and the Grand Canyon besides," Kraqin muttered as he moved through the dimly lit hallways, following the sounds of a saxophone and Frank Sinatra. Predictable as the sunrise, Chronos was sitting in his usual booth marinating an olive.

"So, Almighty Seer of the Future and General All-Purpose Pain in the Ass." Kraqin scowled as he pulled a chair up to the table and tossed the pizza flyer onto the varnished wood. "Any idea why no one mentioned that there were two, that's deux, dos, a pair, double the fun, double the trouble, vampires with souls? One of which happens to be doing a pretty good Harbinger of Death imitation right here in our fair city."

Chronos glanced down at the flyer, dark unfathomable eyes reading the curving script with a casual interest. His long gray beard swished against the table as he moved his glass to the side. "There are as many possible futures as there are grains of sand."

"Yeah. What about this one? Any pearls of wisdom as to how we're supposed to fix this?"

"That implies there's something broken."

"Little thing called balance, keeps dimensional walls in check. Heaven and hell from bleeding together, the usual End of Days nastiness."

"Balance takes care of itself."

"Not exactly high on the comfort scale, old buddy." Kraqin frowned at table. "We've got enough trouble with the new Slayer that's gonna be breathing down our necks. All that matters to humans is that we're not one of them. They think we're all monsters. The Slayer's not gonna care which side we're on."

"Which side are we on?"

"Don't go all cryptic on me. I'm not a black and white guy. I'm a gray. Balance Demon, remember? We're all about the gray."

"Events are already in motion." Chronos turned back to his martini. "The rest is up to the Fates."

"And we all know about their twisted sense of humor." Kraqin threw his hands up in despair. "If he keeps this up, the other side's gonna notice and they're not going to be happy campers. This wasn't supposed to happen. There was only supposed to be one."

"Every action has a reaction."

"They're going to turn this world into a war zone when they find out we've got two of them. Who knows what they'll send to counteract it?" He tapped against the table, the squishy pads of his fingers thumping loudly in time with the music. "They're getting creative. How'd they get into the Slayer line anyway? Makes me jumpy."

"Relax. Have a martini."

"Easy for you to relax. You're an incarnation. You're forever. You'll never die. Front row seats to the panorama of past, present, and future. You've got nothing to lose." Kraqin shook his head. "Me? I've only got one crack at this life and not a clue as to what's waiting for me afterwards. What if those monks are right and I come back as a Losha demon? Huh? Doomed to scuttle around on two thousand legs and eat Toremok dung? Not exactly my idea of a good time."

"It is beyond our reach now."

"That's the problem. The fate of the world is the cold hands of a very pissed off vampire."

"No need for hyperbole."

"Call it hyperbole when the Hellhounds start baying for blood." The Balance Demon was at the end of his patience. "Could you at least let me in on the whys and hows? Did he slip in underneath the radar? How did we miss it? And for the sake of all things linear, how in the name of thundering Zeus did he get his soul back?"

"He won it back. For love." Chronos shrugged but his eyes were twinkling mischievously.

"Love? He decided to play tinker toys with the fabric of the universe because of love? What is wrong with this dimension? Bunch of bleeding heart romantics, the lot of them."

"Don't underestimate love. It grounds their reality."

"So do death and taxes," Kraqin argued sourly.

"This too shall pass, dear friend." Chronos turned his eyes back to the sax player next to the piano, his thoughts far away and in a much happier place.

Kraqin rubbed his head glumly, wondering if he should head for the bayous, leave New Orleans to avoid the wrath of whatever hellspawn would inevitably be spit out to keep the souled vamp in check. If the good guys didn't get him first. No one liked a loose cannon. As long as William the Bloody was wrecking havoc and tipping the scales, there would be no rest for the wicked. Or the righteous.


	13. Hellmouth Calling

**Hellmouth Calling**

For a second, one foot on the top step and the other already through the doorway and committing me to enter Verek's apartment; I feel like a teenager trying to sneak in after curfew. There are still a few hours till dawn but, unfortunately, anything worth killing has learned to stay out of my way. Not that the lesson actually helps once they're dead.

"Hey." Faith looks up at me from a bowl of stew. I could smell the vegetables and beef halfway down the block. Dark eyes flicker in the soft lamplight. Damn. She looks uncomfortable. Embarrassed.

"Hey." It was awkward. I was beginning to bounce lightly on the balls of my feet, flexing and clenching my hands into fists. What had Buffy said about my never standing still? That was enough to stop me and I shrug off my jacket, settling for tapping my fingers on the arm of the overstuffed chair across the room.

It was inevitable. The awkwardness. As soon as she came back to the land of the living enough to remember who and what I was. Vampire, murderer, general all around bad guy who had a sick fetish for Slayers. Kill them, fuck them, all the same to me. It's been a while since I've felt like a little boy waiting to be rapped on the knuckles for trying to kiss a girl's cheek. I would have done it badly too, messed it up by getting mud on pretty dresses of lace and silk. Or pulled her hair and cried when she smacked me up the side of the head. Where the hell had that pre-vamp flashback come from?

A quick glance over. She was completely focused on her food, short dark hair bouncing slightly as she bent her head to meet the spoon. What had I expected? A _Welcome Home, Honey_ kiss at the door? A Stepford Wife? Bloody hell, we didn't even know each other. Yeah, I killed her. Yeah, she'd cried in my arms like a fallen angel the night before. We'd had one conversation in our very short and extremely traumatic non-relationship and it wasn't up to break any records in the annals of Getting To Know You.

Not that I cared. I didn't. Just hated the stammering and aw-shucks hopping from one foot to the other that always came after too much intimacy with strangers. Should I ask her how she was feeling? Was I supposed to do that? Or was it better to just avoid the whole how-are-you-recovering-from-being-brutally-tortured question? That brought back memories of the cage I'd found at the warehouse. And that brought back the rage.

They'd caged her. Never mind the cage had been meant for me. They'd locked her up like a vicious animal. Bound, restrained. I knew what it was like to be trapped, leashed, confined. I'd lived it for years. And good fucking Lord, she still smells of drying blood. It crawls over my skin, into my nose, and taunts me.

I'm pacing now, back and forth at the other end of the room. Can't look at her. Not without wanting to hold her, tell her she didn't have to be the Slayer, didn't have to be Faith. I shouldn't have come back so soon. There were other things out there still waiting to be killed. Worth beating into a bloody pulp, cracking tendons, bones, ripping apart. Killing was simple, straightforward. No questions, no wondering what was the right thing to do.

"Spike?"

Her voice cuts through my internal rant, I look up for just a second before resuming my assault on the carpet. "Slayer?" Even in my own ears, my voice is rough and harsh. Doesn't matter. Harsh reality, cold, cruel world, and all that bullshit. She was a Slayer. I was a vampire. Nothing ever changed.

"Sunnydale." Only that word could possibly make my night worse. She kept going despite the growl that rose unbidden from my throat. "We need to get back. That bastard said he could kill the whole gang. B, Dawn. Everyone."

"You're ready?" Again, it came out more callous than it had sounded in my head.

"Five by five." Her voice was casual and solid. The girl was made of titanium. Less than forty-eight hours from being carved like a turkey, beaten, and probably whipped if I'd gauged the marks on her back right; and she was chomping at the bit to get back into the battle.

"Right." My fingers tug through my hair painfully, demon blood making clumps out of some of the curls. "Where's Verek?"

"Out. Said he needed to pick up a few things." She's looking everywhere but at me.

I'm hoping the bookworm will be able to work the portal mojo again and send us both back to SunnyHell. A fraction of the time and half the price. I'll be spending the rest of my unlife trying to repay him for what he's already done.

"Do you still love her?" The question comes from so far out in left field that at first I wonder if she's still speaking English.

"What? Who?"

"Buffy. Do you still love her?" Dark eyes are watching me seriously.

I shake my head, confused. "I mean...it's not. There's nothing." My words are jumbled and tripping over each other.

"It's cool." Her voice is carefully neutral. "Just think she still cares about you is all." At my shocked expression she falters. "She said she'd forgiven you. For whatever you did before you left. She was talking to Willow and I overheard." She stops and starts pick nervously at the bandages on her wrists.

The attempted rape in the bathroom had been the furthest thing from my mind. My feet slow of their own accord as the rest of her words sink in. Buffy still cares? When did she fucking care in the first place? When she was beating the shit out of me in that alley behind the police station? She'd forgiven me? Full stop. I'm staring into space above Faith's head, listening absently as part of me screams about the shampoo commercial, self-righteous bitch Slayer and what she can do with her forgiveness.

"I haven't forgiven her." My voice is small, awed by the sudden inspiration. Since when did a vampire have the right to even beg for forgiveness, let alone met it out for wrongs done to him. A vampire was an animal. No one had to worry about hurting feelings or causing pain. A vampire was just a thing.

"Not that I want to go into whatever you two had going." Faith is back peddling, eying me with a strange mixture of surprise and curiosity. "It's still got both of you tied up in knots so it had to be damn painful and wicked crazy. Just saying." She looks lost, not knowing what to say or how to get out of the mess she unwittingly stepped into.

"Old news, luv. Vampire, Slayer. Always ends badly. Bloody amazing we're both around."

"Right." She nods with the cool efficiency of closed ears and the label of New Subject Please is firmly stamped on the conversation. "Any idea what's going on?"

"Far as I can tell, Watchers decided to off the lot of you." Scanning the room, I locate the folder on the lamp table and bring it over to the couch. "Files on Sunnydale and the hard drive of the wanker's computer. At least, I think that's the bloody hard drive. Maybe Willow can get something out of it."

"Guess they figured you'd kill us all."

"New Slayer's job actually." Her head jerks up. "Turnin' the girls into assassins. Bint's probably already there."

"What day is it?"

"Monday. Barely."

"She was supposed to be there a couple days after I left. Friday. She's been there for over a week." Faith frowns, digging through the folder. Silence hangs heavily in the air, identical thoughts running through our brains. Were we already too late?

"You know the number? I'm sure Verek has a phone somewhere."

She shook her head sadly. "Didn't plan on checking in. Ever. Just wanted to get out of that hellhole. Make a life."

Turning my head, I watch her for a moment before sitting down beside her. "I get that."

"Yeah. Figured you would." There's a smile now, looking only slightly grotesque with the wounds and bruises covering her face. "Card toting murderer and all. Not to mention the whole pack of Scoobies would probably like to see both of us sucked into the Hellmouth one of these days."

"Never let you in either?" It wasn't really a question.

"No." There was sorrow in her voice. And regret. Mostly resignation that what was done was done and there was no going back.

"Could let them deal with the bitch themselves. Can't be too hard after everything else they've faced." I'm not sure where my mouth is taking me, what conclusion I'm trying to find at the end of this particular string of words. "Take off. See the world."

"I'd like that. But." Her voice is soft and full of longing.

"It'd be wrong. Yeah, yeah." I nod and roll my eyes, wishing for a pack of smokes. "Here's to us. Champions of the Bloody Ignorant Masses. If we're the last hope this soddin' world has, might as well let it burn." She's smiling again and I'm not sure if I've ever seen anymore more beautiful. "How 'bout this? We save their ungrateful asses. Do some traveling. South America, Europe, wherever you want." I wince slightly, wondering if I'm coming across as lonely and desperate.

"It's a deal. Just have to get me a new identity while we're trekking. Since the old one technically can't leave California. There's also the little problem of being dead."

This was a conversation. A nice, pleasant conversation that wasn't stiff and awkward with the specter of unnatural intimacy looming over us. Of course, just like everything else in my life, when things get comfortable is about the time it all goes to hell.

"Spike?" The folder closes beside her, fingers smoothing the flap nervously. "Could you? I mean, if you don't mind." She picks up the jar of salve and holds it out to me. "I can't. Not yet." There's shame in her voice and in her eyes because she can't face the mirror and her own reflection.

"No problem." I feel stiff, rigid and impersonal, as I take the jar, twist the cap off and move closer to her. Her eyes are closed and she trembles slightly as my finger begins to trace the first crimson line, coating it with the gel. She hates it. Hates not being able to do it, having to ask for help. I can see it in the tension that keeps her shoulders tight and the way her fists clench around the fabric of the blanket wrapped around her waist. I should have gotten her some clothes. "I'll get you something else to wear before we leave."

The edge of her lips twitch. "Not that I don't love the busting out all over look." She motions to the buttons straining to keep the shirt closed over her breasts. "A little too stuffy for me. Reminds me of Giles and not in a good way."

Smiling, I continue painting her wounds carefully and gently. She's perfectly still, breathing shallow as I work. Her face is done but she doesn't move, just waits with her eyes closed. Biting my lip, I move on to the burns and cuts marring her neck, pushing aside the collar of the shirt to get to them. I'm playing with fire. Caressing something that should be turning me to ash. Maybe it is. Maybe her skin is slowly burning me away from the inside out and I'll finally be rendered to dust sitting next to her on this couch.

"Could you get my back?" She's unbuttoning the shirt and turning around, letting the fabric slip over her shoulders before I can register what she's doing. "I'll never be able to wear a bikini again. Think I can get away with a tank top?" She glances over her shoulder, trying to see the extent of the wounds.

My fingers are shaking, just slightly, as I start on her bare back. If I concentrate on the motions, smooth, dab, keep it gentle; then I can keep the anger from turning my world red again. Don't think about the man who did this. Don't think about the pain she was in. Just finish and lapse back into the discomfort of two strangers who had shared too much. Shaking my head, I realize she's waiting for an answer. "Nothin' wrong with a few scars, pet."

"The wounds heal, chicks dig scars speech would be more effective if I were Willow."

"Men like 'em too."

"Yeah," she snorts, a hint of the old defiance back in her voice. "Like I'm ever gonna find a guy who won't care that I can kick his ass. Men are pigs. Pretty face, big tits. What else do they want?"

"Good legs."

"See?" She laughs and casts a speculative look over her shoulder. "You like petite blondes, I'm betting."

"Dru had dark hair. Nearly as tall as I was too." I'm avoiding her eyes and trying to keep my hands from shaking as I spread salve over her lower back.

"Variety. Good for you."

"Hear you like to keep your options open."

"Yeah." Too fast and a little defensively. "Tall, dark, and handsome mostly."

"Explains Peaches. And Captain Cardboard."

"Who told you about that?" She nearly turns around, sounding both angry and wounded.

"Who do you think?"

"Bastard. I should have killed him."

"No lack of trying according to Harris."

"Told you about that too?" She winces under my touch but I'm not sure if it is because of my hands or my words.

"Git likes to talk."

"He told me about the Buffy sex bot. And his finance, Anya."

"Figured."

"And probably everything else terrible he could remember you ever having done." I can hear the smile back in her voice again.

"No love lost there." The silence is more comfortable than before, despite the inherent intimacy of my actions. "Sure you're ready to head back?"

"They need me. Us." Her voice is steady and confident.

"Home Sweet Home." With a sigh, I cap the jar and pull away from her respectfully, averting my eyes as she buttons up the shirt once more. "I'll nab you something to wear before the sun comes up. Just rest."

"Something practical. Loose." Straightening the collar, she's back to the brisk professionalism of earlier. "We should leave soon. Sunset at the latest."

"Back in an hour then." It's a relief to finally escape the apartment and sooth my own rattled nerves. Killing, maiming, I can do that. Those are things I'm good at. I managed to get a handle on keeping Dawn out of too much trouble the summer Buffy was dead and I had a hundred years of taking care of Drusilla under my belt, but nothing in all my years had prepared me to deal with this. Should I have taken her to a doctor? A psychiatrist? With disgust, I turn down the street in search of a clothing store open at three in the morning. A hundred and thirty two years and I still didn't know how to talk to a woman.

* * *

"Real smooth, Faith." She thought about putting her fist through something and decided it wouldn't help. Settling for angrily ruffling her now short and surprisingly well-trimmed hair, she washed the bowl Verek had given her and absently wiped down the kitchen counter.

The apartment wasn't as nice as Spike's. She had fallen in love with the high ceilings and elaborate moldings of his loft the second she had climbed through the window. The vampire's taste was a little old, a little new, and a lot of in between. Undeniably masculine. Comfortable and sexy at the same time. Perfect.

"Better than a cage." A wry smile curled up the corner of her mouth, kept small and safe. Any wider and the pull of the wounds on her face would begin to sting.

Energy had slowly returned to her limbs, leaving her restless and stifled in the apartment above the bookstore. She didn't dare leave. Didn't have the nerve go down the stairs and risk someone seeing her. Not like this. She couldn't even muster the courage to glance at her own reflection. Not yet. The only remaining options were sleep, delving into the ubiquitous stacks of books, or going over the Council's file again. None of them rated high on her Scale-O-Fun. She needed to hit something.

When Spike had come through the door, she could see, even smell, the violence around him. He'd been out killing things. It ached to be stuck inside when she should be out slaying. She was a Slayer; it was what she was meant to do. The rational part of her argued that she wasn't exactly at the top of her game. Despite her quickly returning strength and energy, her hands still shook after she had been on her feet longer than half an hour and she would be a convenient snack for any vamp or demon with more than two brain cells knocking together.

Frustrated, she adjusted the blanket around her hips and curled up on the couch, watching the doorway. Waiting for something to happen and end the mind-numbing boredom. She could always beat herself up over the latest pathetic display of weakness in front of Spike. Could she have been any more lame? Shockingly weak compared to his strength.

He radiated power. He coiled, paced, stretched with the seamless movements of something much further up on the food chain and confident of his status. Predatory, lithe. Every carved and sculpted muscle beneath alabaster skin linked together with steel cable tendons and hinting of supernatural speed and force. Everything about him was strong; she had never felt as safe as she had in his arms. Was it even possible to feel that safe? Damn him. Damn his eyes, looking at her as though she was loved. Damn his hands and the way they felt against her skin. Gentle.

It had been years since anyone had touched her with affection. Scratch that. Had anyone ever touched her like that? A few brushes, a hug, a squeeze of her shoulder. All from Mayor Wilkins. From someone who had twisted morality all around her until she hadn't known which direction was which and what to believe anymore. Strangely enough, the Mayor was still the only man, demon, whatever he was, that she had trusted since her first Watcher had been killed. Joyce Summers had been kind; Giles had been tolerant at first and almost worried later. More worried about Buffy than Faith, but she had to believe some of it was for her. Angel had cared but had never reached out to her of his own volition. She'd collapsed in his arms and clung to him like a life preserver, but it had never been affection. Just compassion and mercy.

Angel was about higher purposes and redemption, grand sweeping ideas and feelings. Spike was here and now. He saw her for who she was. Not just another lost lamb to shepherd on the way to salvation. With Spike, she felt protected. She felt cherished. And she made him feel awkward and uncomfortable with her tears and pitiful weeping over a few scars. Well, more than a few scars. She still felt foolish. Slayers were supposed to be stronger than this.

For a moment, as he had spread the salve over her wounds, the awkwardness had fallen away. Feather caresses along her skin had reassured and eased her mind. He was touching her. She couldn't be that ugly if he was touching her. Taking off the shirt had been spur of the moment; part of her needing the feel of his hands, wanting it to go on forever. Old Faith had waited for him to press for more, to take the opportunity of a half naked woman and make the most of it. Deep down, she had to admit that she wanted him to. If for no other reason than to prove that he hadn't been lying, that he really did think she was beautiful despite her new face. He hadn't pursued anything beyond tenderly caring for her injuries. She was both disappointed and grateful.

Sex had always been a double-edged sword, cutting her painfully regardless of how she wielded it. A release, an escape; it had almost been meaningful once. Almost. When she'd worn Buffy's face and taken Commando Boy for a test drive. Sex didn't mean anything to Old Faith and New Faith was too afraid to try.

"Are you alright?" The bookworm's voice startled her. She hadn't heard the door open.

"Fine." She pulled the collar a little higher up to hide more of her neck. "Just tripping down memory lane."

"Not good, I see." His eyes watched her, always curious and bright.

"Haven't had a Hallmark life or anything, but I do okay."

"Restless?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Faith cracked a smile at her host. "Spike, the lucky bastard, has been out most the night getting all the action. I'm still stuck here, looking like the Bride of Chucky."

Verek laughed, light and easy, as he settled into the chair and pulled a book onto his lap. "I doubt Spike feels lucky right now."

"Looks happy enough to me. Getting back in the game and all. He's a vamp, soul or not. They get off on violence."

"This isn't violence, Faith." The pages paused for a moment as he adjusted his glasses. "He hasn't rested and his wounds haven't healed. He can't rest."

"Bad week."

"It's more than that."

Faith frowned. "I know that voice. Giles does it too." Raising one eyebrow, she adjusted the blanket around her feet and waited for the other shoe to drop. "You know something."

"And intelligence to boot. Is there anything you don't have?"

"Little short on patience and empathy. According to the shrink in prison anyway."

"Those things come with experience."

She noticed that his fingers lightly trailed over the pages in smooth lines, as though he was tracing each line of text, his eyes unmoving. "You're blind." It should have been a question but somehow she wasn't surprised.

"Very observant."

"How? I don't understand. You seem normal."

"My kind makes use of a range of the electromagnetic spectrum beyond human eyes. We see things a bit differently than humans do. " Inquisitive eyes pondered her briefly before he turned back to her book. "Auras, souls. Light and dark. The written word is a bit difficult, letters tend to blur together when the print is quite small and ancient, as in this text."

"You're demon then?"

"Yes. But a peaceful race. You need not worry about my motives."

"Does Spike know?"

"On a basic level, yes. Consciously? I don't think it matters to him." Another page fluttered and landed quietly against the others. "As long as I do not intend to harm you, he doesn't care what I am."

Faith felt her cheeks color and looked away. "I'm not that important to him. We don't know each other at all, actually."

"Is that what you believe?"

"It's the truth." She wanted him to disagree with her even if it was a lie. She wanted to be important to someone. Ethan Rayne had to be wrong, she wasn't nothing.

Verek regarded her thoughtfully. "Where does your value lie?"

"Obviously not my good looks." She gestured to her ruined face.

"Your sense of humor then." He smiled when she looked surprised. "And your control."

"Radar's way off on that one. Not exactly the poster girl for restraint. That's Buffy." If her lips weren't sore she would have started gnawing on her thumb nervously.

"Is it?" The book closed softly. "You hate feeling weak or showing weakness. When did you last allow yourself to love?"

"Love?" she snorted bitterly. "That's fucking useless in my line of work. I'm a Slayer. I kill things."

"And the last time you felt compassion? Or friendship?"

"Friends get in the way."

"They distract you?"

"They get hurt. Not worth the risk." She gave up and gingerly bit down on the end of her thumbnail.

"What keeps you safe?"

"I do."

"How?"

"By kicking ass." Even as she said it, the pit of her stomach was sinking into the couch without her. He wasn't talking about physical safety. What kept her safe from those who could hurt her? People who wanted to betray her, use her, lie to her. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and answered his question. "By being in control."

"A good Slayer must have control. An excellent Slayer must know what she is controlling and why."

"You should've been a Watcher." Scratching at the healing wounds on her forehead, she reminded herself to be careful and not reopen any of them. Damn things itched like hell. She had no idea how the little man had managed to twist the discussion into a pop psychology session. "How did we get here?"

"I was about to explain Spike's sudden inclination for violence." He smiled cheerfully across the room, seemingly unperturbed by whatever was going on.

"Assuming it's more than just a vampire getting his rocks off."

"It is." He adjusted his glasses. "You can't hear it because you're human and I doubt even Spike realizes what is going on. The soul tends to muddy the waters, so to speak."

"Anything to do with what's going down in Sunnydale?"

"Possibly." Verek tapped his book lightly, staring somewhat wistfully toward the west. "It's a siren song to all demons, pure or hybrid. A voice that speaks all tongues, unites all cultures. The demon in Spike is restless, as you are, and it will become more violent and more destructive the longer he remains here. I'm sure he's noticed. The rage, the power it gives him."

"What is it?" Her voice was sharp with apprehension.

"The Hellmouth is calling him home."

* * *

"Buffy? Is that you?" Dawn peeked into the kitchen and found her sister cleaning and bandaging several large cuts on her arms. "What happened? Slayerfest 2006?"

"The whole town's gone crazy, Dawn. It's Night of the Living Dead on speed." Buffy rubbed her eyes wearily. "I'm glad Cara's here."

"Borg Slayer's actually useful, huh?"

"I've got a gazillion less bruises to prove it. You know, I think she's beginning to warm up a bit. She almost smiled last night." With a tired grin, the Slayer gave her sister a quick hug. "What are you doing today?"

"The usual. A little work, a little play, industrial espionage and gratuitous violence."

"Afternoon shift?"

"Yep. Home by the nine o'clock show." Working at a movie theatre hadn't been Dawn's first choice but Slaying was hardly the most lucrative profession in the world, with its salary of nothing, so every little bit made paying the bills that much easier.

"Classes?"

"Already back. You have checked a clock haven't you?" She pointed at large numbers illuminating the time.

"Ten?" Buffy groaned. "So much for getting a head start on my day off."

"I've already started the laundry and the grocery list."

"You're an angel."

"Nah. Just a key. But it's close enough for government work." She gave her sister a wink and pulled a box of cereal out of the cupboard. "Betting you haven't eaten either."

"Always knew you'd be the smart one in the family." Buffy pulled up a stool and pushed aside the first aid supplies to make room for two cereal bowls. "There was a squid monster in the sewers that would not die. I'm telling you, I'd chop off an arm or leg, whatever you call those things squids have, and it would be growing back before I could turn around."

"Eww, gross."

"Major ick factor." Crunchy sugar starfish clattered into the bowl. "I'm almost jealous of Cara. She was already trained when she got called. Knows all this stuff about weapons and demons. Giles would have loved her to get one like her. She's even better than Kendra."

"Nah. You're his favorite Slayer in the whole world."

"Not hard when you consider the options." Buffy grinned a little between bites. "Speaking of Giles."

"Upstairs pretending to rest. He's actually looking through some of the musty books he brought for evil preteens who haunt cemeteries and make Faustian deals with soul-having vamps."

"Any luck?"

"Nada. Buff?"

"Yeah?" Milk splashed in the bowl as she looked up from her spoonful of cereal.

"Have you noticed anything weird? I mean other than hyper demons and squid monsters."

"Just the usual Hellmouthy stuff. A bit more intense than usual but it usually gets perkier this time of year. Anything specific I need to know about?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Dawn hesitated, still unsure of her instincts. "Probably just dreaming but I thought I heard a voice last night. Whispering."

"What did it say?"

"No clue. It was just whispering. I thought it was a radio left on or something. Maybe Giles talks in his sleep."

"Have you asked him?"

"Didn't want to bother him. I'm sure it's nothing." Since she'd probably just been dreaming or listening to the wind in the trees, she decided to change the subject. "Why don't you head up to bed and catch some shut-eye? I'll keep the laundry monster fed and happy until I have to go to work."

"Thanks, Dawn. Best sister ever." Buffy finished off her cereal in a few quick gulps before heading upstairs for a long hot shower and a nap.

Dawn cleaned up the kitchen without actually seeing what she was doing and headed down into the basement. The pricking at the back of her neck hadn't gone away. She wondered if that's what Slayer senses were like, someone tickling just above the shoulder blades with a feather duster. When she succumbed and glanced over her shoulder, looking for what or who was the source of the sensation, there was nothing there. Obviously. Telling Buffy would only make her worry needlessly and if the demon community had gone slightly wacky, a worried Slayer was a bad thing.

Wet clothes thumped as they hit the back of the dryer and she slammed the door shut with a frown. Not even the steady rumble of the machine could drown out the whispering in her ears. It wasn't really frightening. Just odd. It was almost like singing, leaving her with a vague desire to follow it like a rat after the pied piper. She didn't, of course, since this was Sunnydale and she wasn't stupid. But it was tempting and seductive. That was the word she was looking for. Seductive.

It was evil. She could feel that deep inside where intuition and instinct resided, but had nothing she could show Buffy that would be proof. Giles might know something, but asking Giles would be asking Buffy. There would be no Buffy asking and therefore no Buffy worrying over nothing. Something was always brewing, sinister plots were always hatching, and Big Bads always on the rise. What harm could come from not telling Buffy right away?

She pushed her thoughts aside and started into the pile of laundry that needed folding. It was amazing how many clothes three women could go through in a week. Especially Buffy. With a sigh, Dawn pulled out a new bottle of stain remover and started on yet another streak of grass and dirt. Occupational hazard. At least they had an excuse to go shopping later.


	14. Home Is Where The Hurt Is

**Home Is Where the Hurt Is**

A very annoying demon was trying to wake Buffy from her nap and when she found it, she was going to rip it into very tiny pieces. Didn't they realize she was tired from a night of killing their nearest and dearest? She needed her beauty rest. Grumbling, she tried to open her eyes and stumble in the direction of the noise.

Doorbell. Not demon. That was worse. She couldn't kill the doorbell or the inconsiderate human being on the other side. The house was quiet; she noticed it but it didn't register as unusual. Dawn must be at work already. Giles was probably looking for more books. Her hand closed around the doorknob and she pulled it open, blinking against the harsh afternoon sun. The figure on the porch was familiar. Tall, dark, and armed. That was typical Sunnydale.

"Cara? Are you alright?" Pain shot through her stomach when she took a step toward the Slayer and she clutched at the injury instinctively, feeling something hard against her fingers. It was a small, green dart. She pulled it out of her skin and stared at it, confused. "What is this?" Glancing up, she noticed the gun in the girl's hand for the first time. Cara had shot her. What was going on? The world began to tilt to one side. Her head was heavy and limbs unresponsive.

Cara seemed to hesitate for a moment. "I'm sorry, Buffy. I have orders," she said finally, grabbing hold of the Buffy's right arm and hoisting her limp body over her shoulders. It was probably the only explanation Buffy was going to get and she hoped that was sincere regret she heard in Cara's voice.

"Dawn?" her voice was barely a whisper, fighting to stay conscious as Cara carefully eased her into the back seat of a car. Giles was slumped on the seat beside her, his glasses tipped at an awkward angle. The motor engaged and the car began to move, sending Buffy toppling bonelessly against his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she listened for the steady thrum of his heartbeat. At least he was still alive. That was the last of her thoughts before she was swept away into oblivion.

Cara glanced into the backseat several times during the drive to the old factory. It had been easy because they had all trusted her. No questions, not even a second glance after the dart injected the tranquilizer into their system. Her face hardened into a frown. They were weak; they shouldn't have trusted her. She had orders.

Easing the car off of the main road, she parked outside the old factory door and turned off the engine. Giles first. It was a little awkward to maneuver the older man through the doorway into the main room and it felt wrong to simply dump him on the floor. He had been a Watcher after all. Gently easing his weight to the ground, she bound his hands and secured him to the support post next to the sleeping Key. There were chains for Buffy around the post where the witch and the human were restrained with rope.

When the last metal bracelet clicked around Buffy's wrist, all that was left to do was wait and care for the hostages. Her orders hadn't been too clear about that part and it would be several hours before the team arrived. Was she supposed to feed them? None of this had been covered in her training.

Uncomfortable and slightly lost, she fell back on the one thing she knew needed to be done. Routine. Guns came apart, blades came out of sheaths. Clean, sharpen, polish, protect. No mystery, no confusion. Maybe she was fatigued. Too little sleep led to mistakes. It had been a long night and there was no reason she couldn't sleep for a few hours.

* * *

The sun had set in Louisiana. I was waiting impatiently, wearing another track in Verek's carpet and checking the clock every two minutes. I hated waiting and the strained silence between Faith and I wasn't helping. She was still pale and despite her defensive protestations, I knew she was tired and hurting. A pair of khaki cargo pants and a soft blue T-shirt looked a little strange on her. She was used to black and leather. All bandages had been shed and it was hard not to wince every time I looked at her wrists. Her arms and face were still black and blue, highlighted generously by dark red scabs. I have to turn away after a few seconds to keep from tearing into something and ripping it apart. The rage has begun to make me uneasy.

"Ready?" A glance is all I can afford without losing my temper. It's enough to see that she's waiting as impatiently as I am, stolen folder firmly in place on her lap. She looks up at me warily, as though she's afraid that I might snap and bite her.

"Soon as the sun goes down." Her voice is steady.

"I'm not going to attack you." Frustration turns my voice into a knife, razor edged and bitter.

Her head ducks and her voice falters just slightly. "I didn't mean...it's not that I don't trust you."

"But you don't." I shake my head, refusing to turn around. "I'm a vampire. How could you ever trust me? I'm just a monster."

"Spike."

"What?" I know the sight of her face will crumble my annoyance and I'll want to fix everything. I'll do anything to bring back that smile.

"You're not a monster."

My eyes close and a sigh weighs my shoulders down, defusing some of my anger. "I'm sorry, Faith. Just antsy, I guess. Shouldn't take it out on you."

"We're cool."

There's something in her voice that puzzles me. Some sort of internal struggle that I don't understand is boiling beneath her casual words and again I feel completely helpless. Is she worried about how the gang will react to her face? I can't relate; I can't understand. Finally turning around, her head is down and she's rubbing her wrists gingerly. I'm notorious for my mouth, my inability to ever keep it shut when I should. Reading people has always come easy to me, knowing what's going on often before they do. Why can't I read Faith? She's an enigma; locked up so tight inside that I can't see into her. I know she's hurting. Is it more than just the physical wounds? She looks so small, so fragile. And even though I know she's not, that she makes steel look weak, all I want is to comfort her. It's fucking ridiculous. What does a vampire know about comfort? I haven't had anyone in my life for years and the lack of human interaction has left me floundering for what should have come naturally.

She's startled when I pull the folder from her lap and drop it unceremoniously onto the floor. Nerves begin to question what I'm doing as I sit down beside her, placing one arm behind her with an attempt at indifference. "You doing alright?" My voice threatens to break half way through.

"Five by five." Her eyes are on the wall across from us, fingers scratching at her wrists.

Her hand is warm beneath mine as I pull it away from the wounds she's aggravating. "Don't make it worse, luv." She looks away but her hand stays still, fingers lightly entangled with mine. I try again. "Worried about the gang? What they'll say?"

"A little." She leans back against my arm and allows me to ease her against my chest, her head barely resting on my shoulder. After a few seconds, the stiffness seems to dissolve and she curls her legs next to mine, molding into the curve of my body. "With the Nightmare on Elm Street look going on, who wouldn't be nervous? They won't even recognize me."

"I recognized you."

"You probably just followed the smell of my blood." She taps her nose lightly, the barest hint of a smile returning.

"Got me there." Nuzzling my nose against the top of her head, I breathe in the scent of soap and Faith. "Magnolias."

"Huh?"

"You smell like magnolias. At least normally you do."

"Lotion. Dawn gave it to me." One hand moves to my chest, palm down, fingers tracing designs in my T-shirt.

"It suits you." There's nothing like the warmth of human skin. The way it seeps into skin and muscles. Calms, relaxes. Soothes the savage beast. Drawing in another deep breath, I whisper into her hair. "You smell wonderful."

"Not too bad yourself...for a dead guy." There's the smile, I can hear it. "If you were blind, we'd be the perfect couple. You can't see, I shouldn't be seen." She snuggles closer to me. "At least B won't have to worry about me stealing her boyfriends any more."

"Faith."

"I'm not stupid, Spike. It's sweet of you to pretend I don't look like something that went through the wood chipper but I've seen a reflective surface lately and it's not pretty," she says with more resignation than acceptance. "It's a shallow world. Barbie dolls and supermodels. You're going to be young and gorgeous forever. I'm not." A pause, her hand smoothes some of the wrinkles in my shirt. "Thanks anyway, though."

Brushing her hair back from her forehead with one hand, I press a soft kiss against the damaged skin. "Not everyone is that shallow, luv." She jabs me good-naturedly in the ribs. "Alright, most men are. And they're bloody stupid pigs. You're better than them anyway."

"Thanks." She sounds a little uncomfortable with the compliment.

"Gorgeous, huh?"

"What?"

"Said I was gorgeous."

"Well, duh. You know that." She looks up at me, grinning openly at the look of surprise on my face. "Come on, Big Bad, where's that ego everyone told me so much about?"

"What ego?" I feign innocence, enjoying the glint in her eyes.

"You're telling me you don't have women knocking down your door? Ha! The guy at the club practically guaranteed that you'd be up for a good time."

"Charlie. That son of a bitch." I sigh with mock irritation, since I actually had gone home that night fully intending to have sex with whoever was waiting for me. "He's been trying to set me up with anything in a skirt for years. Never took him up on any of them." At her incredulous look, I shake my head. "Haven't been with anyone since Buffy. Four years ago."

"Wow." Head down, her cheek presses like a brand against my chest. "Got you beat though. Six years in prison."

"Ouch."

"Torture." A beat. "Although not literally."

"Should hope not. You've had enough of that for a lifetime." I was feeling pretty good. This wasn't going too badly and she was talking, something that I don't think she ever did a lot of with anyone. "Don't worry, luv. They're not gonna run screamin' from the room when they see you. Well, maybe Harris. But he's bloody idiot. Doesn't know a good thing when he leaves it at the altar."

"Poor Anya. That was her name, right?"

"Yeah." We settle into a comfortable silence and I realize that I'm not in a hurry to leave anymore. In fact, I'm dreading the appearance of our host when he returns to open the portal to Sunnydale. Resisting the impending change, I pull her tighter against me, wrapping my arms around her waist and burying my face in her hair. A warm hand slips tentatively over my shoulder, caressing the back of my neck lightly as she adjusts her legs. Relishing her heat and her scent, my concentration is lost in the peace and comfort of the embrace. My eyes are closed and all I have is her touch, savoring each feather light stroke of her fingers.

The soft brush of her lips against mine seems natural. She tastes of spiced honey and wine. Just a hint of blood from still healing wounds on her lips. A voice in my head reminds me to be careful not to hurt her, to keep the kiss gentle. Kiss. How? What? Bloody hell. It finally sinks in and I break the contact, pulling back to search her eyes for answers.

She tries to pull away from me, turning her face. "I'm sorry."

"Faith, wait. Don't do this." Half worried that my grip on her arms is hurting her, I draw her back. She stops struggling, letting me hold her.

"Were you lying?" Her voice is muffled by my T-shirt. "When you said I was beautiful? You were just trying to make me feel better."

Surprised, I push her back enough to see her face. "Course not. What are you talking about?"

"It wasn't true." She's looking back at me, her eyes dull and sad.

"God, Faith." The prize for royally fucking up with women goes to Spike, vampire with a soul and all around dismal waste of time. "It's not that. At all."

"What is it? Is it Buffy? I'm not Buffy." Dark eyes cloud over, sparking with anger.

"No, luv. Buffy's ancient history. There's nothing between us." She doesn't respond, waiting for me to figure out what to say. I don't even know what's going on in my own head. Why had I stopped? She was a beautiful woman. A beautiful Slayer. And that second word held all the reasons in the world. "Vampire, remember. Vamps and Slayers don't mix. Trust me on this one." I could try explaining to her that she's just reaching out, searching for something or someone to help her deal with what happened to her. I don't. I think she already knows.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry for." Cupping her face gently in my palms, I kiss her lips chastely. "Best kiss I've had in years." A smile lights up her eyes and I know I've finally found something that was close to the right thing to say. "We should go. Sunnydale. Scoobies. Save the world."

"Yeah." We don't move, staying curled tightly around each other until Verek comes up the stairs and begins work on the portal to California. I refuse to relinquish my hold on her until the very last moment, watching her disappear into the shimmering doorway.

"Thanks, mate." I hold out my hand to the shopkeeper, shaking his firmly.

"Come back and visit, Spike."

"I'll be back. Don't belong there anymore. Maybe bring Faith with me. If she's game."

"Take care of her."

"'Til the end of the world."

* * *

Verek closed the portal as soon as Spike vanished, vacuuming the circle of powder from the carpet with a practiced care. He hummed softly as he pulled his jacket over his shoulders and locked the upstairs door. Lights flickered out in the shop below and he changed the sign on the door to read closed as he left.

The distinct fragrance of New Orleans filled his senses as he strolled down Bourbon Street, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his neatly pressed slacks, and cheerfully greeting the people out enjoying the evening as he made his way to a small club on the far side of the French Quarter. It wasn't much to look at, trapped in the old style of the roaring twenties. Inside was reminiscent of the Rat Pack heyday in Las Vegas, with bright colors and gaudy furnishings. Smooth jazz tones floated lazily over the Formica tables. It had an odd mix of customers, mostly demon in nature.

"Verek." An older gentleman smiled and raised a martini glass. "I haven't seen you around in quite a while."

"Chronos. I heard about Caritas in Los Angeles. Such a shame."

"Yes. A wonderful place."

"Whatever happened to Lorne? Still singing?" Verek settled into the booth next to the Incarnation of Time and flicked one wrist to get the waitress's attention. "Creme de menthe, please."

"He's working with Angel. Brief stint in Vegas. Didn't work out."

"Too bad."

"And your neck of the woods? How's the shop?"

"Less crowded." Verek smiled at the waitress when she slipped his drink onto the table. He sipped the alcohol carefully. "They just left for Sunnydale."

"Excellent."

"Will they be alright?"

"Do I sense some attachment to the vampire? That's not like you, Verek."

"The girl, Chronos. What about her?"

"Yes, what about her? That's a paradox." Chronos swirled his olive absently. "A vampire who shouldn't have a soul. A Slayer who shouldn't be alive."

"There's a connection between them."

"Also something that shouldn't be there. But no matter. All things will be rectified in time."

"What are they bargaining for?"

"They aren't. Not yet." He paused, watching the band wistfully. "They aren't convinced that William the Bloody will fight for good. It might be possible to sway him to their side, return him to the dark warrior he was. I, myself, am a little unsure what will become of him. It took quite a few years to convince Angel to become a Champion and the Powers had more going for them with him. More leverage, more incentive."

"Spike is not Angel."

"That much is very obvious to anyone paying attention."

Verek hesitated, clinking the ice in his glass. "I want to help him."

"Why?"

"I believe that he can be a force for good. I believe that he can be a good man."

Chronos regarded him thoughtfully. "It is not our place to meddle. You know that. We don't choose sides." His long beard whispered against the tabletop. "But there is something about the vampire that does inspire a certain loyalty. Your decision is your own."

"The situation must be dire if you capitulate so easily." Verek adjusted his glasses.

"It is just beginning, my friend. Just beginning."

* * *

"Think this is it?" Willow tried to look over her shoulder but was stopped short by the support beam she was strapped to.

"Game over, man, game over," Xander responded blithely, continuing the grand tradition of joking in the face of death. "Have to admit it makes a twisted sort of sense."

"You mean the part where the Council screws us over?" Buffy was struggling against the manacles binding her wrists and ankles, keeping one eye on the still unconscious form of Dawn tied to the neighboring beam.

"Just when I was making progress with the girl at the donut shop," Xander sighed. "We were up to, hi, how's the cat? And she would say, Bugsy's great, he's started a new moth and insect diet. And then I say, how's that working out for him? And she says, not bad, but I worry about him getting all his vitamins and minerals."

"Please tell me that's not a direct quote, Xan." Buffy rattled her chains again, trying to loosen one of the links.

"That's why you're always out getting donuts?" Willow rolled her eyes. "I should have known. What kind of demon is she? A donut-eating demon?"

"One hundred percent human. I think. You know me, could be wrong. Could be one more in the Gallery of the Demon Chick Magnet." He shrugged awkwardly, limited by the ropes around his chest. "So what's the super genius plan to get us out of here and past the uberbitch?"

"Working on it." Buffy glared across the room at Cara, who appeared to be sleeping. Buffy was convinced it was just another ruse. "I can't believe I made her brownies. I even took them out of the oven and cut them into perfect squares."

"This is what we get for trying to be friendly. You know how your parents always told you not to bring home stray dogs because they'll turn on you and bite your hand off. I think that was one of those moral lessons in disguise." Willow sunk back against the post, abandoning her attempts to wiggle out of her ropes. "At least we know Giles was right. They are making crazy Slayers."

"And we can thank our friendly neighborhood vampire for bringing her to our lovely town."

"Xander." Buffy's tone was a warning. "It's not Spike's fault."

"Just saying. No Faith killing means no shooting with darts and tying up in the old factory. What is it with evil and this place anyway?"

"It's got the whole I'm-Bad-and-Damn-Proud-Of-It vibey thing going for it. Dark, dirty, falling down and needing to be condemned," Willow observed.

"Why can't they all be like Dracula? Bring in their own castle complete with beautiful women."

"And Xander the butt-monkey?"

"Okay. Without that part. But everything else was nice."

"You weren't the one getting bit," Buffy cut them off. "I think Dawn is waking up. Dawn? Dawnie?"

Dawn stirred and moaned, blue eyes fluttering open and blinking confusedly. "Buffy? Is that you?"

"Over here, Dawn."

"What happened?"

"Cara shot us all with some sort of tranquilizer."

"That explains the groggy." Dawn grimaced. "Did she not like the brownies? Or is she just being a ho?"

"Remember Terminator?" Xander piped up. "Where the robot goes back in time to kill people? It's more like that. Without all the muscles, Austrian accent, and the nakedness at the beginning."

"So she's going to kill us?"

"I'm placing my bets on a definite maybe with possible escalation to hell, yeah."

"We'll get out of here, Dawn," Buffy interrupted Xander's tirade before he could induce panic. "We just need to stay calm and think. Can you reach my hands Xander?"

"No can do. You've got chains anyway. Nothing us mere mortals can do about that."

"Maybe I can reach yours. Just rope, right?"

"Yep. The little folk get rope. At least I didn't help her pick it out this time."

Buffy twisted against the beam, searching for Xander's fingers. Dawn was testing her own bonds and trying to shake Giles awake with one shoulder. Across the room, the Slayer was curled up silently in a patch of fading sun, occasionally rolling over or straightening her long legs. She appeared to be sleeping in spite of the noise.

"No use." Buffy stopped and leaned her head against the support. "I don't have enough slack in the chains. I can't reach you."

"Maybe we should start praying for a miracle," Willow suggested. "Or chanting. Whatever you feel more comfortable with."

"Who would we pray to, Will? The whole God thing is pretty much up for grabs and the Powers That Be don't really like Sunnydale all that much. More the big city and tragic hero types." Xander twisted against the ropes. "Is there anything magic you can do?"

Willow shook her head sadly. "I've tried. There's something blocking me. She was prepared for us. For everything."

"We could try talking to her."

"Does she even talk like a normal person? We'd probably have to know the right code words or something." Buffy kept searching her brain for something they could try.

"Buffy. Giles is waking up." Dawn gave the Watcher another good shove with her shoulder and he jerked upright quickly, wincing as his head started pounding. "It goes away in a sec, promise."

"Dawn? Where are we?"

"Where would be the factory. Why would be anyone's guess. Who would be Cara. How would be those nasty green darts that sting like a mother-"

"Dawn!" Buffy glared at her from across the room.

"Right. Like I believe that. I was the one sleeping with Spike, rememberI'm very familiar with all the phrases he taught you." Dawn's response was a shrug and a patented Summers eye roll.

"Where is Cara?" Giles shifted, testing the ropes as the rest of them had.

"Playing possum in the corner. Maybe. I don't know how she could sleep through this racket." Buffy nodded in the general direction. "I'm in chains. Something's blocking Willow's magic and I can't reach Xander. Can either you or Dawn do anything with your ropes?"

"I can't reach him. Already tried." Dawn strained against the ropes again.

"Shhh!" Buffy's head snapped to the side as she silenced them. "I can hear something." The group fell silent, straining to hear each creak and rattle of the old building. Footsteps. Slow and quiet.

"Hello?" The voice was a hoarse whisper. "Slayer?"

"Who's there?" Buffy strained to find the source of the voice.

"Where's the Slayer? The new one?"

"Over by the door. Who are you?"

"I'm here to help you." The footsteps moved away, around the perimeter of the factory toward Cara. Buffy squinted across the room, stunned when she heard the hiss of a tranquilizer gun and saw a small green dart protruding from Cara's back. Their unseen ally hurried back toward them, still hiding in the shadows. "I can help you. But you have to promise I won't get hurt."

"How can I promise that? I don't even know what we're up against. And why are you still whispering?"

Ethan Rayne stepped out of the darkness and smiled, a gun hanging loosely from his hand. "I meant that you or Ripper won't hurt me."

"Ethan." Giles scowled. "Give us one reason why we should trust you at all? I seem to remember that the last time you were here I ended up speaking Fyarl and asking Spike for help."

"You've got worse enemies than me, Ripper. Believe that. I can get you out of here but you've got to protect me."

"Fine." Buffy set her jaw firmly. "But one false move and you're toast."

"Just trying to help, Slayer." He moved forward cautiously and pulled a knife from his boot. Willow flinched as he knelt next to her, holding her breath as he cut the ropes around her wrists. "It's the amulet around your neck."

"What?"

"Blocking your power. It's the amulet."

"I wondered where that came from." Willow pulled the necklace over her head and studied the stones curiously.

"Get the keys to Buffy's chains, they should be on the other Slayer." Ethan moved to Xander, sawing at the ropes. Willow hurried over to Cara and found the keys, returning to free Buffy and help Giles stand up unsteadily.

"We should take her with us." Buffy glanced toward Cara. "Tie her up for a change."

"She'd probably like it." Xander shrugged at the looks everyone gave him. "But you're right. We might be able to get some information out of her."

"Here." Ethan held the gun out to Giles. "I know guns aren't in the Slayer training book. At least not when you were a Watcher."

Giles took the gun quickly, still watching his nemesis with suspicion. "Why are you doing this?"

"I was in prison for three years, Ripper. It changes a man." Ethan looked almost melancholy, almost repentant.

"So you're saying that you're here out of the goodness of your heart. Forgive me if I find that hard to believe," Giles said coldly.

"Can we take this somewhere else? She brought you here for a reason. There's a team on their way to kill you all. I came here to warn you."

"I'm sure we can take it from here." Buffy crossed her arms. "Why don't you just disappear and we'll pretend this never happened?"

"The team isn't the only thing coming for you. I can help you. If you trust me."

"I don't trust you any further than I can throw you." She paused as she considered that. "Actually, any further than Dawn can throw you."

"Hey!" Dawn protested.

"But you might have information. Help Xander with Cara. Let's get out of here." The gang collected Buffy's chains and restrained the unconscious Slayer. Ethan and Xander carried her out of the factory. It took a bit of doing to get everyone packed into the sedan parked beyond the door. Xander ended up driving, trying not to break any laws as they hurried through the dark streets of Sunnydale back to the 1630 Revello Drive.

Once inside, Cara was secured firmly to a chair and Ethan allowed himself to be lightly restrained with a minimum of protestation. Willow and Dawn disappeared into the kitchen to make phone calls and find food for the group.

"Alright. Talk." Buffy glared down at the notorious trickster. "Start with why you aren't in prison."

"I told you. I came to help."

"What do you know?"

"Watcher's Council decided to kill all of you. For a lot of reasons, not all of them bad."

"Hey!" Xander objected.

"From their point of view," Ethan corrected quickly. "You're uncontrollable, you don't follow the rules. They don't like that. And Faith? I don't need to explain that one to you, do I?"

"No. But we already figured this out." Buffy sat down on the couch, rubbing at the sore spot where the dart had hit her. "Tell us something we don't know and we might let you walk out of here alive."

"There is more. Samuel Elliot sought me out three years ago, got me out of that government prison your soldier boys put me in and offered me a large sum of money for a small spell. A Menejar projection."

"The little girl Spike saw." Giles took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Of course."

"Elliot provided a photograph of his daughter for the projection. I cast the spell, delivered my lines, took the chip out of William the Bloody's head, and went on my merry way."

"He could have killed hundreds of innocent people."

"You mean to tell me he hasn't?" Ethan seemed confused.

"No. He has a soul now," Buffy explained. "You didn't know that."

"No idea. But it explains a lot actually."

"Explains what?"

"His madness. He's completely insane. The Council's been trying to get him for months now. Ever since they officially formed the new Watcher's Council. They've sent half a dozen teams. He killed them all." Ethan shook his head sadly. "I was the one who leaked the information to them when I realized Elliot was becoming unstable. He wants you all dead. He blames Buffy for the death of his daughter."

"What?"

"She was a potential Slayer. She came here during the battle with the First. Chloe, or something." Ethan frowned, trying to remember. "I'm not sure about her name. Brunette, dark eyes."

"Chloe." Buffy paled, remembering the young girl vividly. "She committed suicide. Giles. I buried her."

"It wasn't your fault, Buffy," Xander assured her quickly.

"I didn't even know she had family. I should have...I should have tried to find them, contact them. Something."

Ethan didn't let the silence last long and continued his story. "They were on their way here tonight, Elliot and a team of men. To kill you all. The girl was just supposed to contain you." He motioned toward Cara. "And there are plenty more where she came from, Ripper can back me up on that."

"It's true." Giles looked torn between agreeing and disputing him just out of principle. "What do you know about Spike?"

"The projection takes a lot of energy. I'm afraid that I wasn't careful with the spell to remove the chip. Something could have happened to his brain. At least, I thought that might be the cause of his break with reality at first. Having a soul could only have made it that much worse."

"He was pretty crazy when he showed up," Xander reminded them softly. "When he killed Faith. She said he was incoherent afterwards."

Giles stared at him for a moment. "How could Faith possibly tell you anything if she was dead?"

"Well." Buffy glanced at Xander, knowing the cat was out of the bag but still searching for a lie that would fit all the pieces while still keeping Faith's secret. When nothing came to mind, she decided that it was time to come clean. "She was only dead for a minute. We think. Spike brought her back."

"And were you ever going to tell me?" Giles stood up and began to pace angrily. "I can't believe you kept that from me. Where is she? What about her parole officer? Did you even think about these things?"

"She went to New Orleans. After Spike." Buffy twisted the hem of her shirt nervously.

"You sent her after the vampire who killed her?"

"She wanted to go. I tried to stop her. Giles. I know it sounds bad. But he has a soul."

"And apparently that hasn't stopped him from killing people."

"We don't know that for sure. Ethan could be lying."

"Lovely. His word against Spike's. I don't think we can believe either of them."

"I'm right here, Ripper," Ethan said irritably. "And there's more. Your Slayer found him, although she probably wishes she hadn't now. If she's still alive, that is."

"What are you talking about?"

Ethan squirmed apprehensively under the weight of Buffy's glare. "I only heard rumors. You know vampires, they like to talk."

"And?"

"I heard that he locked her in a cage. Tortured her for days. Cut her face to ribbons. I thought at first they were about you or the new Slayer. After all, Faith was supposed to be dead. Since you and the other girl are obviously here and unharmed..." he trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.

"Oh god." Buffy buried her face in her hands. "I shouldn't have let her go. I should have stopped her."

"Buff. They're just rumors." Xander took her hand, squeezing it tightly.

"I'm very sorry," Ethan began.

"Shut up," Giles interrupted him harshly. "I don't believe you care at all. I have no idea what game you're playing, Ethan. But you won't get away with it."

"No games, Rupert," Ethan answered soberly. "This is my penance for turning that monster loose on the world. In a way, what happened to that girl is my fault."

"I haven't forgotten that." Giles looked away. "I'm sorry, Buffy. I know you were hoping, well, we were all hoping it was different."

"It's going to kill Dawn." Buffy shook her head. "She believed. She really believed he'd...that he was."

"We still don't know it's true," Xander paused. "Not that I'm defending Captain Peroxide. Which I would never, because he's evil. Even if he did help us out and save the world on a couple of occasions. I'm defending him, aren't I? Shoot me now."

"No. You're right. All we have is Ethan's story." Holding her forehead wearily, Buffy tried to make sense of it all and keep the nausea at bay. "Not a word of this to Dawn. Not a single word. Our first priority is getting the Council off our backs and out of this town. Then I'm going after Faith."

"I'm sure she's fine."

"She'd better be. Or dusting won't be what I do to him." Resolve Buffy had taken over. "Do you know anything else?"

"It's possible that the team is staying at the motel outside Sunnydale. Just off the highway." Ethan jerked his head toward Cara. "She probably knows for sure."

"Then we'll pay them a visit. You're coming."

"Why am I coming?"

"Because I haven't decided whether or not to kill you. And I don't want you out of my sight." Buffy untied him roughly and yanked him to his feet. "Dawn! Will! We'll be right back."

Dawn skidded around the corner. "Where are you going?"

"To check something out. We'll be right back." She paused at the doorway. "Don't invite anyone in while we're gone."

"Duh. I've lived here for years, I know the rules."

"Keep them. No one but us. Promise me."

"Whatever." Dawn rolled her eyes and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Okay. Let's go."

They drove silently through Sunnydale, each lost in their own thoughts. A vacancy sign stuttered its welcome into the darkness. The whole place gave the impression of slouching down into the ground, trying to hide from the eyes of the world. Johnny, the night desk clerk was half asleep and staring blankly at a small black and white television screen. He vaguely remembered a bunch of foreign guys checking in and waved them toward the other end of the building. Two rooms on the end. The blinds were drawn, no lights coming from the new rooms.

Buffy tried the door of the first one. It swung open at her touch and she tensed, stepping into the darkness warily. A dim light bulb flickered above them as Giles found the switch. There were three bodies, necks torn and covered with blood, lying on the floor and bed of the motel room.

"Vampires." Giles moved carefully into the room, looking for clues.

"Or a vampire." Buffy took a deep breath, trying to stop the shaking in her hands.

"You don't think?" Xander shook his head. "This can't be Spike. He's in New Orleans."

"He has been know to be highly mobile, Xander." Giles finished searching the room, brow furrowed with intense concentration. "There isn't any luggage. Some weapons. No clothing, no briefcases. Nothing."

"Let's try the next one." Buffy felt stiff as she moved to the next door. It was also open and a similar scene greeted them.

"Elliot." Giles moved forward quickly, checking the pulse of an older man sprawled across the bed. Nothing. "These are recent. The body is still warm."

"Probably as soon as they got in. He knew they were coming."

"Again. We don't know it was Spike. Besides, he's not really good at the whole planning thing," Xander persisted, a little green around the edges and trying to avoid looking at the blood.

"He told Giles about Faith weeks before he showed up."

"And look how well that turned out." Xander held up his hands. "I'm just saying, we don't have all the facts. There are a lot of vampires in Sunnydale."

"How many would know about these guys? How many would want them dead?"

"It doesn't make any sense, Buffy. If Spike wanted us dead, why kill the people who were coming to do just that?"

"I don't know." Buffy backed out of the room quickly and started toward the car. "None of this makes any sense at all. But we can't assume he's not here and not trying to kill us. Last time we did that, Faith died."

"Do you still need me?" Ethan raised his voice, looking anxious to get away.

"Yes. You have to stick around." Buffy grabbed his arm roughly and hauled him to the car. "If you're lying, I can't even begin to describe what I'll do to you. Understand?"

"Of course." He held up his hands in surrender and climbed into the car.

* * *

Faith was waiting for me in Sunnydale, holding onto the folder tightly and looking both frightened and tough as nails. I smile as I stumble out of the portal and glance around. Cemetery. One of the nicer ones. There are a few disconnected memories of Buffy fighting a faceless demon and complaining about the foliage. Or not destroying the foliage. It's a little hazy. I wonder if there's a single square inch of Sunnydale that doesn't have the requisite baggage of Slayer memories tagging along. What isn't Buffy tainted is probably contaminated with worse memories. Dru, Angelus. The Initiative. God, I hate this town. Look up the word masochistic in dear old Webster and there I am. Instead of curled up with a warm Slayer dreaming of Europe in moonlight, I'm back again to save the Scooby gang's collective ass. Why? Oh yeah, because it's the right thing to do. Fuck it. I could care less about the right thing to do. Right? I'm a vampire. I'm evil. Aren't I? When was the last time I did something truly evil? Buffy? This last week has been strange. In a blood soaked, violence induced, uncontrollable rage kind of way. Odd. And more than a little unnerving.

Just above my shoulder blades feels as though there are eyes trained on my back, following me through the cemetery. Waiting and watching. There's nothing there when I glance back, but I can't shake the sensation that Faith and I aren't the only ones in the graveyard. It's the Hellmouth; there are bound to be nasties crawling all over the town. This feels different and familiar somehow. I can't put my finger on it.

"Let's go." Faith leads the way, setting a brisk pace through the night.

There isn't any conversation as we move through Sunnydale. The tension is rolling off of her in waves and I'm still searching for something to say when we start up the walkway. If Harris makes one crack about her face I will rip his vocal cords out.

"I can't." She stops me as I raise my hand to the door. "Not yet. I need more time."

"Alright. We'll come back tomorrow." I'd rather be back in New Orleans with her curled up in my arms anyway. No hurry to subject myself once again to the ungrateful firing squad.

"No." She shakes her head, handing me the folder. "You go. I'll go...somewhere else."

I brush my fingertips lightly over her cheek. "You don't have to do this alone, Faith. They won't hurt you, luv. You're safe now."

Faith looks indecisive for a moment, moving down the porch to peek through the windows. She pulls back so quickly that she nearly knocks me off the porch, her face white and eyes wide with terror.

"Faith?" Her mouth opens and closes a couple of times, her hands moving to protect her face from something. "What's wrong?"

"The man who did this to you?" She nods mutely, dark eyes staring up at me, panicked. She's not ready. It's only been three days since I found her huddled on the ground, crying and bleeding. There's nothing on Earth that would convince me to push her into a confrontation now. "I'll find you. And I'll bring him with me so you can kill him yourself. When you're ready."

I don't have to tell her twice. She's down the steps and racing into the darkness. Placing the folder carefully on the porch next to the door, I knock loudly three times. Can't say I'm not thrilled at the opportunity to show the monster a thing or two about torture myself.

"I'll get it!" Dawn's voice echoes as the door swings open. "Spike! Come in." Understanding flickers in her eyes and she's covering her mouth with one hand even as the words tumble out.

"Dawn! NO!" Buffy's warning is too late.

I'm already through the doorway; my only thought is to get to the bastard and rip him into pieces. There's only one man other than Harris and the Watcher. He's sitting on a chair, smiling. Buffy tries to grab hold of my arm. I toss her away and launch toward the man, tackling him and crushing the chair beneath us. Growling furiously, my fists pound into his face and chest. He just has to be alive. Barely. Lost in my own rage, I don't notice the sting of the dart as it embeds into my side. Or the second dart in my back. Finally the drugs begin to kick in and I collapse onto the floor, the world spinning above me.

* * *

Halfway down the block Faith skidded to a halt, grabbing onto a nearby tree to keep her balance. What was she doing? She was running away like a pathetic little girl and she was not that girl, not anymore. She was not going to run away ever again. Clenching her fists tightly, she took several deep breaths before turning and starting back down the sidewalk. Step by step. Right foot, left foot. When she had seen him sitting there, her only thought had been to escape. To get as far away as possible. She couldn't go back into the cage. It was a normal reaction. She'd seen it in people coming into prison, still desperate to avoid being locked in a cell.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, eyes fixed determinedly on the light coming through the windows. Why was he in the house? Sitting in a chair and talking with Buffy and Giles. He must be waiting for the perfect moment to kill them all. Maybe he had tricked them somehow. Convinced them to trust him and let him in.

Slowly, she crept back onto the porch. Crouching beneath the windows, she tried to see what was happening in the living room. The man, Ethan Rayne, was leaning against the wall, a bloody towel pressed to his nose and one eye already starting to swell. Good for Spike. Tiptoeing to the side, she caught sight of the familiar blond hair. He was tied to a chair and obviously unconscious. That didn't make any sense. Why had the gang tied up Spike? Buffy was standing next to him, arms crossed and spine rigid, a stake clutched tightly in one hand. She looked furious. With Spike.

Faith sunk to her knees, hands pressed against the side of the house. It was hard to breathe. Her lungs wouldn't expand, throat constricting dangerously as she gasped for air. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible. They wouldn't do this to her. She shook her head wordlessly, desperately trying to convince herself that there had to be a good explanation, had to be another explanation. Blinded by tears, she stumbled off of the porch and across the lawn. She'd thought that things were different. That they had realized she was different now, that maybe they had even forgiven her.

The scream that had been stuck in her throat fought its way out, ringing through the night as she looking around for something, anything, to take the brunt of her rage and pain. Her fist punched through the side window of a car parked on the side of the road. Ignoring the cutting glass and the pain of her healing wounds, she ripped the metal mailbox from the grass and attacked the vehicle. The windshield broke into pieces, metal scraped against metal, headlights shattered. She kept pounding until her arms ached and her throat was hoarse from screaming.

"Hey! That's my car!" The owner hurried out of his house, dressed in a bathrobe.

Faith hurled the mailbox toward him, following it and driving her fist into his face. "I believed them! I trusted them!" she shouted at him, trembling as she looked down at his terrified face. "I don't deserve this."

"Okay. Okay. I needed a new car anyway." He held his hands up in a plea, flinching away from the sight of her disfigured face. "Just don't kill me."

She was having a hard time focusing. "I've killed people...I'm a murderer. That's all they ever see." Dejected, she turned away from the man and ran to the only place she could think of.

She forced a window open, tumbling into the apartment where she had taken Spike. It hadn't changed, still bare and empty. The pile of clothes had been moved to the bed and folded neatly. There was a note on the table from the landlady, hoping he had a good vacation and to call her when he returned. Some vacation. Shaking, she washed her bleeding hand, picking bits of glass out of the cuts. In a daze, she wrapped a towel tightly around her knuckles and crawled onto the bed, curling protectively into a ball. Reaching out, she took hold of one of the black t-shirts that someone had folded neatly on the edge of the bed. It smelled of cigarette smoke and Spike. Closing her eyes, she pressed her face into the soft cotton and sobbed until she didn't have any tears left.

It should have been obvious. Buffy had let her go too easily. The Watcher's Council had already tried to kill her once; this must have been their back up plan. Giles must have been part of it. Was the entire thing a charade? Had the files been lies too? Had Spike been part of it? She dismissed that quickly. He'd been the one who saved her, found her in the warehouse and taken care of her. The rest of them? That was possible. But it didn't make any sense.

Why would Ethan be sitting in Buffy's living room if he really was trying to kill them all? Why was Spike tied up? Her head was whirling with questions. The Scoobies were obviously protecting Ethan Rayne or there would be no reason for Spike to be restrained. She had no doubt he'd attacked the second he was given an invitation. Why protect Ethan? Did they know what he had done to her? Had they known all along?

Her head hurt. She wasn't the smart one. Had never been into plans and strategy. Obviously, she wasn't capable of the elaborate mind fuck the Scoobies had orchestrated. A little voice argued that it could be something else, there could be a good reason. She stamped it out bitterly. Simple was better and it would explain the time discrepancies. Willow could have cast the spell Spike told her about, with the little girl, and she was powerful enough to remove the chip. When he hadn't killed her permanently, they had let her go to New Orleans after him. The Council hadn't gotten into the game until a year ago. Giles could have planted the files or the Council could have double-crossed the Scoobies. Ethan Rayne must have been brought in to capture Spike, or her if he'd been lying about that too. The torture had probably been unexpected; a liberty taken by the sadistic prick. All of their plans would have fallen apart when Ethan showed up in Sunnydale to report that neither her or Spike were dead. And she and Spike had fallen right into their hands. They would probably keep him alive until he told them where she was.

Faith shuddered, trying to force away the pain eating into her heart. There was nothing she could do. Not yet. Not until she had her strength back. A day, maybe less, was all she needed. Spike wouldn't tell them where she was, that much was sure. Willow could do a locator spell. How long would she have before they found her? Miserably, she tried to shut out the memories flooding in. Researching, breakfast with Dawn, reading the paper next to Buffy. They had seemed to accept her and to care.

More lies.


	15. Burning Bridges

**Burning Bridges**

Faith stood tensed, waiting for an attack, her fingers clamped tightly on the lip of the counter top as her mind raced in circles. She should have taken Spike's offer to let the fucking Scoobies deal with this themselves. Let the Slayer bitch kill them all. This was what she deserved for trying to help them; a knife in the back. Buffy had been waiting years to finally finish what she started when she'd put her in a coma. Jail hadn't been enough for Buffy. It was never enough, would never be enough.

All that kept her from running was Spike. They had Spike and they were probably going to kill him, which would make Buffy happy. She'd never have to talk about the vampire she'd fucked ever again. Never have to admit it. Willow and Xander would forgive her; they'd understand, they'd never question her. Goddamn sheep, all of them.

Why had she come back? Why not just stay with Spike in New Orleans? Safe. Comfortable. Cared for. Maybe not loved but cared for. She was too jaded to think that anyone who had loved Buffy would ever want her. Every part of her life that Buffy touched went to hell; she was always in the shadow of blonde hair and green eyes. She had everything Faith had ever wanted. Friends, family, love. It didn't matter that she had fucked two vampires, the very creatures she was supposed to be killing, or that she'd tried to kill Faith and the rest of the Scoobies at least once.

_"I haven't forgiven her."_

That was what Spike had said. It struck a nerve. She'd spent the last six years searching for forgiveness. Serving her sentence, her penance, trying to atone for what she had done. Every moment had been driven by one thing, forgiveness. A hundred, a thousand even, speeches had been carefully laid out in her head. For Buffy, for Xander, and they all boiled down to two words. Forgive me. There was no reason for Faith to forgive them, they had done nothing wrong. All the blame had been placed squarely on her shoulders. Is that where it belonged? Nothing but silence answered her questions.

She would be alone forever now, which was fitting because she'd always been alone. Even when she'd tried to fit in here in Sunnydale, tried to be what they wanted her to be, she'd still been alone. When had they ever just looked at her and wondered what Faith was like? Just Faith. Had they asked what her favorite color was? Her favorite food? What her hopes and dreams were? If she wanted something for her life other than vampires and demons? They hadn't even asked what her last name was, they didn't even know that much.

None of them had ever cared. She was Slayer Number Two. She didn't need a last name; she wasn't even supposed to be around because technically Buffy wasn't dead. Faith was a fluke, a mistake. Unneeded, unwanted.

She almost turned away, eyes still closed tightly so that she couldn't see the mirror in front of her. She didn't. The counter cracked under the pressure of her grip. So much for her control, the bookworm had been wrong about that, she couldn't control anything. Her whole life had been a leaf falling from a tree, tossed and battered by the wind; unable to stop the downward spiral or prevent the gusts from taking her with them against her will. Always at the mercy of everything and everyone around her; chaos and confusion were all she had to offer. When people got closer, looked inside her, all they found was destruction, bedlam, twists and turns that would drive a saint to despair. A lifetime of crawling on hands and knees, searching for something to believe in; closing her eyes, taking a breath, jumping into one more failure.

Spike had taken his destiny into his own hands. He'd won back his soul, refused to kill her even when it meant pain and torment for him, although that part had turned out to be been a lie. He had searched for her relentlessly, had done whatever was necessary trying to help the Scoobies even when he knew that they would never accept him. He didn't want to be accepted, he just wanted to help them. Why? Why not just turn his back and walk away? Because Spike was Spike. It wasn't in his nature to give up. He knew who he was.

Who was she? She had been a Slayer, then the Mayor's right hand; she'd even been Buffy for a day. But who was Faith? Not Old Faith. Not New Faith. Just Faith. She wished she could see herself the way Spike did. In his eyes, she was everything she wanted to be.

_"Nobody knows what you are. Not even you, little Miss-Seen-it-All." _

She knew every word Mayor Wilkins had ever said to her. Heard them over and over in her head for six long years in a prison cell; hating the sound of his voice in her head like a vile poison spreading through her body. Had they been lies? Had he used her just like everyone else? She'd never worn the dress he bought her again and she hadn't even been there when he died, but none of it mattered if all of those words had been lies. He wasn't around to ask so there were no answers. There was nothing for her to hold onto. Nothing to believe in.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. The face in the mirror stared back at her with fearful uncertainty. She saw short dark hair, like Xander's so many years ago. Dark eyes, full lips, good bone structure. Cream skin had been marred by cuts and obscured by bruises that were beginning to fade. Turning her head side to side, she searched the reflection for a hint of who she was. A trace of what Spike saw when he looked at her. She squared her shoulders and met the other woman's gaze, unblinking and defiant. Ethan Rayne had taken her face, had caged her like an animal, and given her a taste of hell itself, but he had not broken her. No one could break her.

Realizing that she had been holding her breath, she inhaled sharply, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the mirror. That was her. The face in the mirror. Stripped of everything she had. Friends, family, identity. What was left? If she could never atone, never earn the forgiveness of those she had wronged, what was left? A life of swallowing back tears, of never believing in herself or anyone else? Could she ever forgive herself? Would she ever be able to look in the mirror without hating her own face? Dark eyes blinked from the gargoyle mask that had replaced the one she loathed. The face she had abhorred from the moment she discovered a mirror was gone completely and so was the frightened little girl hiding behind it.

She saw it.

In the set of her shoulders and the lift of her chin was what Spike saw when he looked at her. Awed, she stared at the mirror without blinking. Looking into her own soul and finding something she didn't know she had. Control. He'd told her to keep looking, after he had pulled her from the ocean and brought her back to life. Keep looking. She had to make a choice. The past was done and gone. What she did with her life was her choice and she didn't have to be a leaf anymore, letting the wind take her wherever it wanted. All she had to do was take control.

"Who are you?" she whispered to the face in the mirror.

The lips moved, smiling as she answered her own question. "Just Faith."

* * *

"Why would he attack Ethan, Giles?" Buffy paced back and forth, glancing at the still unconscious Spike chained to the wall of the basement. "He just pushed me away. He didn't even try to hurt me or anyone else."

"I don't know anything more than you do, Buffy. And you know Spike far better than I do," Giles sighed.

"Where's Ethan?"

"Motel. Although he's probably gone by now."

"He'll stay and gloat just like always." Buffy sat down on the bottom step of the basement stairs, staring at an unconscious Spike and rubbing at the headache beginning to form at her temples. "And I'm sure by the time we finally figure out what he's up to, he'll have plenty to gloat about. It has to be trick. It's always a trick with him."

"I'm afraid you might be right."

"I can't believe Spike would do those things to Faith." Buffy shook her head, her brain aching with the exertion of trying to make sense of it all. Spike didn't have the patience to torture someone; he'd get bored after the first fifteen minutes. "Kill people trying to kill him, yes. Torture Faith? No. It's not him. Not his style."

"He did have Angel tortured for the Gem of Amara," Giles pointed out.

"Giles. I'm being glass-half-full girl. Don't rain on my parade." She frowned at the Spike, wondering how long it would take for the tranquilizers to wear off so she could ask him what was going on. "Maybe I shouldn't have shot him with two of those things. It's been fourteen hours. Do you think it works differently on vampires?"

"I don't think you need to worry."

"Buffy?" Willow's voice carried down the basement stairs. "You'd better come see this."

"Be right there." Buffy took one last look at Spike before starting up the stairs with Giles. A large brown folder was sitting on the table in the living room; Willow was carefully pulling manila folders out of it.

"I found it on the porch," Willow explained, staring intently at the metal box in her hands. "They're files. From the Watcher's Council, I think. This is a hard drive. I'll try to hook it up and see what's on it," she paused uncertainly. "I think, maybe, just maybe...Spike brought them."

"Why would Spike bring this stuff?" Buffy sat down and began to sift through them with growing horror. "It's us. Everything about us. Even Anya and Tara." The chill in her heart grew colder as she read through the assessments. "Orders to kill us. All of us but Spike. They want him as a guinea pig. No wonder he killed them. It would be the Initiative all over again."

"Any reasons why?" Willow frowned, peering over Buffy's shoulder as she untangled a length of cable to plug into the hard drive. "Why kill us all, I mean?"

"Doesn't say." Buffy glanced over at Cara. The girl was silent, not even trying to escape from the chair she was tied to. "Cara?" No response. "Cara. Why were you supposed to kill us?"

Cara blinked, staring at Buffy as though she couldn't quite understand the question. "I was not instructed to tell you why you were to be terminated."

"Terminated." Buffy rolled her eyes. "You know you can think for yourself here. It's an order free zone. We don't brainwash people."

The Slayer seemed to hesitate for a moment, but her voice was clear and steady when she answered. She might have been reciting the phone book for all the emotion, or lack of, in her voice. "Insubordination and incompetence. That is why you were a target. And your Watcher."

"Incompetence?" Buffy scowled angrily. "I'd like to know what they would have done without me. I suppose they wanted to fight the First Evil all by themselves. Oh yeah, they got blown up. That's incompetence for you."

"Elliot blamed you personally for his daughter's death, Buffy." Giles looked up from the file he was holding. "This is probably more personal than strategic."

"Alright. What about the others? Cara?"

"The Witch has a name. And she's sitting right here." There was just the slightest hint of wounded pride in Willow's rebuttal.

"Xander Harris is unfortunate. Civilians should not be permitted to be involved with Slayers," she continued as though she hadn't heard.

"So he's just clean-up?"

"Yes."

"And Dawn?" That was the one that Buffy really wanted to hear justified. She couldn't even imagine their reasoning for wanting Dawn eliminated unless it was simply another way to get at her.

A shadow of emotion passed over Cara's face that was almost regret. "The Key is not human and is not classified as benign. It is a liability."

"Where do people like you come from?" Buffy had to make a conscious effort to not destroy the papers in her hands, her thoughts hazy with anger. "She's a girl. A real girl. Just as human as you, well, I really don't think you're human, so she's just as human as Giles or Xander. She's my sister."

"Buffy?" Willow interrupted. "I've got it. I think I may have found something and there's probably a lot more here. Expense accounts, logs, that kind of thing."

"Any way to verify what Ethan told us?"

"I'm looking." Her frowned deepened as she navigated through windows, bringing up more files and scanning over them. "There's a separate account for New Orleans, a lot of money moving back and forth. A very large number with lots of zeros to an Ethan R. Smythe. I'll keep searching."

"What if he's telling us the truth?" Buffy turned back to the files in front of her. "What if Faith is still in a cage somewhere? What if Spike really killed her this time?"

Cara looked confused. "She is dead. I was called."

"She only died for a minute. Spike brought her back."

Confusion turned to bewilderment. "I don't understand."

"Welcome to the club. If any of us actually understood Spike, this would all be a lot easier." A smile crossed Buffy's face, lost in a private joke. "He's tricky. Like an exam."

"I don't know if we can confirm what Ethan said, Buff." Willow tapped her fingers on the table frustratedly. "But we can't prove that he's lying either. He was paid a lot of money by the Council that could have been for the spell. And there are records of extraction teams going to New Orleans and being killed. Almost twenty people have died trying to capture Spike. It's all right here."

"At least part of what Ethan said is the truth." Giles bent over Willow's shoulder to see the screen. "He could be telling us just enough to gain our trust. Perhaps Spike can fill in some of the gaps."

"And if he has turned Hannibal Lector? Not so much with the wanting to talk to him." Buffy shook her head firmly. "I don't want any of you going near him until we know what's going on. It's crazy enough around here with all the demons getting jazzed over something. Are there demon drug dealers? Cause there has to be something doing this to them."

"I'll look into it. Maybe it's an alignment. They tend to disturb the energy fields around the Hellmouth." Giles headed for the bookshelves.

Buffy stood up, feeling the need to move around and at least pretend to be useful. "Will, keep at that hard drive thingy, see if there's anything else we need to know. I'll see if I can rouse the undead and get something out of him."

"Good luck, Buffy."

"Don't let Dawn downstairs. Not even if she cries and gives you the wounded puppy look."

Willow smiled over the laptop. "I'm immune to wounded puppies."

* * *

My head is killing me. I could have sworn I got that bloody chip out years ago so why does my head hurt? There's light, somewhere above me. And a palette of familiar smells: laundry detergent, lavender, vanilla, earth. Trying to clear the haze from my eyes, I shake my head, moaning at the increasing pounding in my skull. The blurry images I manage to take in are of Buffy's basement. Long time no see. An attempt to move reveals that I'm shackled at the wrists. What's going on?

"You're awake." Buffy's voice is ice.

"Buffy?" Unsure of what's going on, I try to remember what happened. Faith. The man. The bastard who tortured her was here, in Buffy's house. "Where is he?" The growl is involuntary.

"The man you tried to kill? He's safe."

"What? Buffy, you don't understand." And I really don't understand. She had stopped me, chained me up in her basement, and let the rat slither away into the sewers again.

"You're right. I don't." Her eyes are flashing angrily as she tosses a bag of blood in my direction. "Tell me where Faith is."

"What do you care?" I'm suspicious now. What had the bastard been doing in her house last night? Eying the blood skeptically, I pick it up and turn it over in my hands.

"Ethan said you had her. That you," her voice breaks and she stops.

"I took care of her." It was obviously the wrong thing to say, color drains from her face and she takes a step back.

"And the men they sent after you?"

"What are you talking about? Vamps, demons. Killed them all." Where is she going with this? She's looking at me as though I've turned into a rattlesnake. Or something worse. "What was he doing here? Buffy?"

"He saved us." The words are bitter and she seems loath to say them.

"What?"

"Cara had us tied up in the factory. He saved us."

"And you brought him home? Just like you. Never see what's right in front of you 'til it bites you in the ass." I'm past the point of caring whether or not I mix my metaphors. Damn Scoobies and their twisted idea of right and wrong.

"Is Faith dead?"

"Of course not." I struggle to my feet. "How incompetent do you think I am?" That apparently warrants the painful end of her fist. My head jerks to the side and I crash into the cement wall behind me, dropping the bag of blood on the floor. "Bloody hell, woman! What was that for?"

"Where is she?"

"What? You want to finish her off yourself? Get a little payback?" I spit blood onto the dirty floor just in time to get a fist in the stomach, doubling me over.

"Where is she?" She's furious now, shaking with it.

"Go to hell, Slayer." There's no way I would tell her where Faith was even if I knew. They'd probably just hand her over to the bastard and let him start where he left off. "I'm not going to tell you anything. Might as well just stake me."

"You're not going to die, Spike. That's too good for you." She turns on her heel and starts up the stairs.

I'm left to stare after her, angry and puzzled. Just when I thought I had this whole thing figured out I'm back at square one with more pieces. Do all of the pieces even come from the same puzzle? I'm beginning to wonder if I've been missing the big picture. All I knew about Ethan Rayne was that he had locked Faith in a cage, taken a knife to her face, and a whip to her back. According to Buffy, he'd saved the whole Scooby Gang after telling Faith he was going to kill them all. It was crazy. It made no sense. When had any of this made sense? With a sigh, I sit back down, maneuvering to reach the bag of blood. Drugged or not, I have to eat something. I can't figure out bizarre and sinister plots on an empty stomach. Tearing into the bag, I grimace at the taste of lukewarm pig blood, gulping it down hungrily.

Discarding the empty bag, I test my chains quietly, trying not to attract attention. They're sturdy. Not unbreakable but strong enough to hold me. Damn Slayer. What was she thinking? How many times did she have to get stabbed in the back before she learned not to turn around? She didn't seem to like the idea that Rayne had saved them but her holier-than-thou ethics wouldn't allow her let a good deed go without reward. Unless, of course, it was done by an evil, soulless thing. Duplicitous bitch.

The chains rattle as I get to my feet, pacing restlessly as far as my tether allows me. There's something missing. Why had Buffy been so angry? Why was I so angry? For the past week, I've been in and out of a blind rage that I don't understand. I thought it was because of what happened to Faith. It seemed to lessen when I was with her, holding her. Memories of her, soft and warm in my arms, calm me and ease the aching in my head. She was safe. That's all that mattered. Keeping her safe. Protecting her as I had protected Dawn.

Dawn. In this house. With that monster. Anger floods in again, fear nipping at its heels as I realize she's at the mercy of the same hands that carved into Faith. I should have gone for the kill. Faith wanted her own revenge. I know better than anyone you can't always get what you want. I just need one more chance to do it right. A creak catches my ear. Third step. Soft footsteps. Lavender.

"Big sis'll tan your hide, Bit." Restlessly, I crouch down against the wall, pulling against the chains around my wrists.

"I know." Dawn sits down on the bottom step, staring anxiously across the room. "She won't tell me what's going on. No one will. It's a big conspiracy to keep Dawn in the dark. Kind of like never telling me about Glory."

"Shouldn't be here, pet."

"Spike. You're all chained up, you couldn't hurt me even if you wanted to." She pauses. "And I'm pretty sure you don't."

"Tell Buffy that." I nod toward the ceiling. "Did that bastard really save you?"

"Yeah. Big surprise. I'm pretty sure he's trying to pull a fast one. That's what he does. According to Buffy anyway. I wasn't actually here when he was. But I have monk memories fashioned just for me. So good, you can't tell them from the real thing. A few anyway." She shrugs and moves closer, pulling herself up onto the washing machine.

"You alright? Slayer bitch didn't hurt you?"

"Had a headache for a few hours. I'm good." She kicks the washer nervously. She keeps looking over her shoulder, searching for something, and looks troubled when there's nothing there but laundry detergent. There are dark circles under her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Can you hear it?" She shivers as she bites down on her lower lip. "The voice. Whispering."

"Bit?"

"Just listen, okay? Tell me you hear it."

I listen. Nothing but her heartbeat and the sounds of the world beyond the basement. Nothing. Wait. Turning away from Dawn, I vamp out. There it is. A voice. Barely a whisper, singsong rhythms that remind me of Dru; my demon hears it and thrills at the sound. It's a drug, a bloodlust high I've never felt before, pure rage like heroin in my veins. What the hell? Shaking off the ridges, I look back toward Dawn. How can she hear it?

"You can hear it." Dawn swallows hard, her face is pale and haunted.

"The demon can," I answer carefully, watching her face.

"No one else hears it. Not Buffy or Giles." Blue eyes widen a fraction as my words sink in. "Demons. Demons can hear it. I can hear it."

"You're not a demon, Bit."

"But I'm not human either." There's bitterness in her voice. "That's why Cara was supposed to kill me. I'm not human. Not really."

"Bit," I don't know what to say to her anymore. I've missed the last four years of her life and she's grown up without me. Settling for shaking my head sadly, I meet her gaze without any words of comfort to offer.

"Spike" Her face pales and she stumbles off of the washing machine.

My ears pick up the furious pounding of her heart the same moment her eyes roll back into her head, white staring out at me as her knees buckle. She's falling in slow motion. I can barely hear my own shout over the strange whispering and the sound of rushing blood. Metal snaps. The resistance against my wrists falls away and I'm moving toward her, my arms cushioning her fall just before she hits the concrete floor.

"Dawn!" Buffy's voice breaks the spell, the whispers fade away, and time resumes its speed. "Let her go!"

Pulling Dawn protectively against my chest, I snarl at Buffy, fangs bare and glistening with pig blood. She stops short, watching me warily as I return to the wall, cradling her sister in my arms.

"Buffy? What's wrong?" Giles is at the top of the stairs.

"Get a crossbow. Now!" Buffy shouts up the stairs. Her fists are clenched tightly at her sides. "Let her go, Spike."

"Fuck you." It's mostly a growl. I'm still shaking with the shock of seeing Dawn collapse in front of me. "Something's happening to her and you didn't even notice!"

"What are you talking about?"

"She can hear it!" I'm shouting, frustrated and afraid. "The voice. The voice that the demons hear. She can hear it." I can't tell her more. I don't know more. My demon recognized the voice, knew it, loved it. Why could Dawn hear it? Now that I've heard it clearly, I realize that it's been singing in the back of my mind for awhile. Intuitively, I know it's connected to the overwhelming rage that's been driving me. That doesn't reassure me.

"Whispers. She said something about whispers. She said it was a dream."

"You know, Summers, you can be an amazingly blind on occasion. You're so stuck on yourself that you don't even know when people are falling apart around you."

Buffy remains impassive, not speaking when Willow hurries down the stairs with a crossbow. She hands it over and stares at us both, unsure of what she's supposed to do now. The crossbow's pointed at me in an instant and I know Buffy won't miss if she pulls the trigger. Her voice is steady again when she speaks. "Give her to me."

"Come and get her, Slayer." There's more than just a hint of challenge in my voice. I made a promise to protect Dawn and I intend to keep that promise. Even if I'm protecting her from her own sister.

"If you hurt her," she warns, gripping the crossbow so tightly her knuckles are white.

Trying to control my rage, trembling with the effort of it, I pull Dawn closer. "You know I would never hurt Dawn. For God's sake, Buffy, you have to know that much."

"I don't know you. Not anymore."

I can't argue with that. She's right. None of them know me anymore. Part of me recognizes the fear in her eyes; she's desperate to make sure that her sister is safe, willing to do anything to hold on to her one solid link to the world outside of vampires and demons. If I had a reflection, I would have seen that look in my own eyes. Trying to calm down, I nod once. "Take her."

Buffy's moving forward, pulling Dawn away from me and backing away in an instant. Her eyes dart to the broken chains falling from my wrists. "How did you do that?"

"I had to get to her." I'm not sure how I broke the chains. With a shrug, I return to my crouch. "I won't go anywhere. I'm not your enemy."

Buffy stares down at me, hesitant. She's trying to decide something, if I'm dangerous maybe. If she can bring herself to trust me, a monster. "Did you bring those files? About us?"

"Nicked 'em out of the Watcher's Headquarters. Thought Willow here could do something with the hard drive." A glance at Willow reassures me that I had managed to do something right.

"Why?"

"Tryin' to help, Slayer. Just tryin' to help."

"And Ethan? Why attack him?"

"Take a good look at Faith when you see her and then ask me that question." Anger pushes me back to my feet and she takes another step back. "He put her in a fucking cage, Buffy. A cage. When I found her..." I have to stop, my voice is shaking.

Buffy is pale as she carefully eases Dawn down onto the floor, using a pile of towels to cushion her head. "He said you were the one. That you hurt Faith."

"What?" Understanding slides a few of the puzzle pieces into place. That's why they shot me, chained me up. It's bloody hilarious in a sordidly infuriating way. "And of course, you believed him. Because I'm a vampire. A monster. An evil, disgusting thing, isn't that right? You haven't changed a bit."

"I didn't believe him." Buffy glares at me. "But I couldn't take any chances. He said you were insane. Trying to kill him didn't help you any."

"I wasn't trying to kill him." It was the truth. I should have been trying to kill him. Would have saved everyone a lot of trouble. Although she probably would have staked me.

"No." A familiar voice floats down the stairs. "But she was supposed to kill you." Giles stumbles awkwardly down the stairs, a gun at his temple and one hand pushing him forward. Ethan Rayne is smiling behind him, his face is bruised and swollen from my fists. I should have snapped his neck.

"Ethan." Buffy positions herself between the man and her sister. "You've really outdone yourself this time."

"You have no idea, Slayer." Ethan Rayne shoves Giles forward and calls up the stairs. "Come down, Cara." The Slayer moves smoothly down the stairs, a gun in one hand and a stake in the other. She looks a little uncomfortable, her eyes moving from Buffy to Ethan with more than a little trepidation.

"Isn't she wonderful?" He motions toward the corner. "All of you, over by the vampire. By the way, these are wooden tipped bullets designed especially to kill vampires. Welcome to the twenty-first century." I help Buffy with Dawn, putting her out of harm's way next to the wall. She flashes me an apologetic look. I nod sharply, knowing she has no choice but to be suspicious. There's plenty of time to be furious about it later and I've wasted enough of my life wallowing in bitterness over her inability to understand me.

"You won't get away with this, Ethan." Giles is rubbing his broken arm gingerly.

"I already have Ripper. And it was easy." Ethan laughs as he leans against the stairway. "I don't suppose you want to hear the details. But I'll tell you anyway." Cara moves into position, keeping a watchful eye on the group. "I was telling the truth before. Except the bit about Spike torturing Faith, of course. You should see her, really. Some of my best work." He raises one eyebrow when I start to growl. "If I'd known about the soul, it would have made much more sense. You trying to find her. Save her even. Playing the white knight. Did she fall into your arms? Thank you properly like the filthy whore she is." Buffy's hand restrains me as I jerk forward, wanting to rip him apart. "And the Watcher really did want to kill you all. Pathetic. Elliot and his tears, blaming you for his daughter." Ethan waves his gun absently. "Quite annoying. He just didn't understand. This isn't about his revenge." Brown eyes narrow and his voice turns icy. "It's about mine."

"Revenge for what? Your own stupid mistakes?" Buffy snaps defiantly.

He ignores her. "I promised Faith I'd give you a go, Slayer. See if you hold up as well as she did. Amazing really. Such stamina. I knew she and the vampire would come running to your rescue. All I had to do was set you up and watch you fall. Your weakness." He left the chair, caressing the gun fondly. "Is that you always trust the wrong people. It's very noble, but painfully stupid. A sob story about change and redemption and you waver."

"You had Cara kidnap us so that you could save us."

"Actually, I just took advantage of Elliot's plans. I had to get close to you somehow. And when Spike attacked me, he was playing right into my hands." He smiles at Buffy for a moment. "I had hoped you would kill him. Save me the trouble. No matter."

"And Faith?" I have to ask even though I'm dreading the answer.

"That's the beautiful part. I've studied all of you, learned your strengths and your weaknesses. Faith is such a complex creature; so full of weaknesses, if you know where to look." He chuckles, moving the chair out of the way and leveling the gun at us again. "She'll run, just like she always has. A scared little girl. If she does show up, it will be to kill you. The girl has no trust and, excuse my rather obvious pun, no faith. She'll believe you were part of it all along. That you sent her to be caged and tortured."

The wooden door to the basement explodes without warning, scattering bits of wood through the basement. Ethan screams as an arrow pierces his wrist, the gun clattering to the floor. Faith is standing in the opening with dust and splinters raining down around her, a compound bow trained on Cara. Her voice is steel. "That's where you're wrong, you son of a bitch. Spike?" She glances toward me for an instant then back to Cara. "Do what you do best."

Cara looks at me for a split second, eye widening as I push through the Scoobies. The end of my right chain catches her wrist like a whip, knocking away the gun and leaving an angry red welt. She blocks the first of my punches but doesn't see the kick aimed for her right knee. Faltering, she pulls a dagger from her calf and dives forward, catching my side and leaving an ugly gash. Using my chains, I catch her ankle and pull her off of her feet. She rolls away, hurling a box of Christmas decorations toward me and springing back up.

"Spike?" Buffy shouts through the din, wondering if I need help.

"Protect Dawn." I grunt as I pull Cara off balance and land another blow in the center of her back.

Willow and Giles are backing away from the fight nervously, looking back and forth between me and Faith, searching for a way to help. Faith is circling Ethan, bow raised and aimed at his heart. Blood spurts from his wrist, his face twisted into a mask of pain and rage. I'm half listening as I continue to wrestle with the Slayer. She's trained and precise but there's no imagination, no fire, and she's inexperienced. Just a matter of taking the opportunity when it comes.

"You think you know me. You think that someone like you could possibly understand me." Faith's voice vibrates with rage. "Because you locked me that cage and took away everything I had. That's what you thought."

"You're dirt," he spits out, holding tightly to his wrist. "You're nothing."

"Wrong." She takes a step forward. "I'm Faith. The Vampire Slayer. And there's one thing you can't take away, no matter how much you cut."

"And what's that? The fact that you're a pathetic excuse for a Slayer?"

She shakes her head slightly, smiling. The arrow leaves the bow with a hiss, slicing through his shoulder and pinning him to the wooden stairs. Stalking toward him, she punches him once, breaking his nose with a crunch. "I'm not going to kill you. You're going back to jail. Back in a cage. Where you belong."

The distraction gives me the opening I need to knock the blade away from Cara and get an arm around her, jerking her arm painfully and yanking her head back. Her neck is wide open. One bite, one twist; another Slayer to my name. The thrill of the kill is singing in my head, pumping through me like fire. I can almost taste her blood. Craving it. Needing it. All I have to do is lower my head, bite down. Who would blame me? She came here to kill us all.

"Spike!" Dawn's voice is pleading, breaking through the fog of rage and bloodlust in my head.

I glance up, seeing the heartbreak in her eyes. I can't kill in front of her; can't give her that image, that memory. The bloodlust dies, fading away into silence. I settle for pulling the Slayer roughly to her feet and motioning for something to bind her with. Buffy supplies a length of rope and helps me truss her to the center support beam. Leaving her under Buffy's watchful gaze, I move to Faith. She's staring at Ethan, her body taut and still charged with fury. Carefully, I take the bow from her hands and lay it gently down.

"Faith, luv."

"I can't turn around," she whispers. "I don't want them to see me."

"You're beautiful." I rub her arms soothingly. "You look like an angel. A very deadly angel."

She looks up at me with a smile. "Liar."

"Yeah, well. Vampire, evil. It's what we do." With a smirk, I pull her into a firm embrace, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

"Faith?" Buffy is watching us with surprise.

Gritting her teeth, she turns to face them. "Hey guys."

"Oh my God." Willow claps her hands over her mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean...it's just. I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Will. I've seen a mirror. I know what it looks like." Faith smiles weakly. "Think a little make-up will do the trick?"

"I can do better than that." Willow finally smiles. "How about a healing spell? Cuts down on the scarring." She motions to her own scar, barely a silver line crossing her cheek below the eye.

"How'd you get that?" I don't remember her having it before.

"Big battle with the First." She shrugs it off. "I'll get my stuff. If you want to, that is."

"Are you kidding?" Faith grins, eyes lighting with hope. "Bring on the mojo. I don't want to look like a scarecrow for the rest of my life."

Reluctantly, I let go of Faith and watch them head up the stairs. Buffy is holding onto Dawn, who is protesting that she doesn't need any help to walk. She's still a bit unsteady and I'm glad when Buffy hands her off to Giles.

"What should we do with them?" I motion to Ethan, bloody and scowling from the staircase. Cara's face is unreadable.

"I think there's hope for Cara," Buffy answers thoughtfully. "Ship her back to England. Maybe the Council can rehabilitate her. Now that psycho Head Watcher is dead."

"Dead?"

"Vampires. Probably another Ethan Rayne special." She shakes her head, smiling faintly. "Sorry I doubted you, Spike."

"Line of work, Slayer. Would've thought the same myself."

"No. You wouldn't have." She turns away. "I still need to talk to you about Dawn. It can wait."

"Yeah. Don't know how much help I'll be. But I know a bloke who might be able to. Bookworm back in New Orleans." I glance at the stairs, wanting to check Dawn myself. And Faith.

"Go on. It's almost dark. Why don't you and the gang go out for dinner?" She smiles brightly. "I'll take care of these guys."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. Bring me back a salad or something."

"Buffy?" I'm halfway up the stairs before I turn around. "Thanks for hearing me out. Before."

"Least I could do, Spike." She pauses for a second, looking shy for the first time that I've seen. "I'd like to talk to you sometimes. About us, what happened between us...before you left. But it can wait."

"Later then."

"Later."

* * *

Buffy stared at the ruined basement, feeling numb and lost. And angry. She would have to replace the door again and the room had been torn apart by the fight between Cara and Spike. Couldn't people choose a battleground other than her basement? And Ethan had stepped on her last nerve. He'd turned them against Spike and set them all up, not caring if they destroyed each other. The image of Faith, scarred and furious, would be forever branded into her memory.

"You're not evil, Cara," she said absently as she began straightening, tossing laundry into piles that would need to be rewashed or refolded. "Just brainwashed."

"Buffy?" Her voice was hesitant. "He did that to her? Her face?"

"Looks that way."

"Why?"

"Ask him yourself."

Ethan glared at them, trying not to put pressure on the arrow through his shoulder and apparently refusing to say anything. Maybe he was in too much pain to open his mouth. Buffy thanked whatever was responsible for small favors. If he opened his mouth again, she may have to break his jaw.

Cara frowned, still looking confused. "Why didn't he kill me? The vampire."

"Because he's Spike." Buffy wasn't sure why Spike hadn't finished the girl off. She sighed as she knelt down beside the Slayer. "If I let you go. Will you go home? Leave Sunnydale, never come back. No orders to follow. You could be your own woman."

"I don't know how." Her dark brown eyes were genuinely troubled.

"No one does. But you'll figure it out. Will you leave? I'd hate to have to kill you."

Cara thought about it for a moment before nodding. "I will go. I think that, perhaps, my training has not adequately prepared me for slaying. And I do not think you are incompetent."

"Thanks." Buffy untied the ropes quickly. "Now get out of here before the others come back down. I can't guarantee they'll agree with me."

"Thank you." Cara rubbed her arms where the rope had been. "Good bye, Buffy Summers."

"Good bye, Cara." She watched the girl climb out of the basement into the setting sun and hoped she would be able to get home safely.

"She'll come back and kill you." Ethan coughed, wincing as the arrow through his shoulder tugged at the injured flesh.

"I don't think so." Buffy picked up the gun slowly, running her fingers over the barrel. "Does this really work on vampires?"

"Why don't you find out? I believe there's one upstairs." He smirked at her. "One who is no longer in love with you. How does it feel? Losing him to her? A filthy whore."

Buffy shook her head and continued straightening up the basement. "You're pathetic, Ethan. All your elaborate plans. You've wasted your life trying to hurt us.

"It's just begun, Slayer. You have no idea what's coming."

"That's life on the Hellmouth for you. But I do know one thing." She glanced up at him. "You won't be around to see it." The sound of a car pulling out of the driveway floated through the opening. "I thought they'd never leave."

"Slayer?" Ethan was starting to look nervous.

"Faith was right." She approached him slowly, raising the gun in her hand and holding it steady. Guns had never been her thing but after seeing Cara's efficiency with them, she was ready to try it out. "You should go back to jail. It's what you deserve."

"You won't do it. It's not in you." There was a note of panic in his voice.

Buffy regarded him thoughtfully. "Faith once told me that if I killed her, I would become her. She said I wasn't ready."

"Smart girl."

"You deserve to rot in a cell for the rest of your miserable life, Ethan. For what you've done to us. For what you did to Faith."

"I couldn't agree with you more."

"You don't deserve death." She smiled coldly. "But it's good enough for me." The sound of the gunshot ricocheted through the basement. Ethan's body went limp, blood trickling from a single wound in the center of his forehead, the arrow holding him to the stairs.

* * *

"Has the vampire chosen a side?" Chronos sipped his omnipresent martini. "You should try one of these, Clotho. They're really quite good."

"Perhaps another time." She almost giggled, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously.

"He has chosen." Atropis, the eldest Fate, looked up from her needlework. "The side of life and mercy."

"The side of good," Lachies chimed in, smiling sweetly as she looked around the club. "Mortals have so many wonderful things. Music, joy, love. Such beautiful things."

"And the price?" Chronos gently steered the conversation back to the matter at hand.

"Is high, indeed. But suitable." Atropis paused almost imperceptibly, her stitching resuming after just a beat. "Balance must be maintained."

"I don't suppose you would explain to me how this maintains the balance. From many perspectives, the barter itself destroys any semblance of balance."

"There will be a period of unrest." Clotho shrugged carelessly. "As there always is when the seat of power shifts. It is not our concern.

Lachies was still smiling, her luminous eyes following the waitress around the club. "We are bound by the same rules that you are, Chronos."

"I worry, my darlings, that perhaps the best solution was not found. That we were too hasty. Perhaps we did not fully consider the ramifications of our choices."

"It is neither here nor there." Clotho waved his concerns away with a brush of her hand. "I tire of this place. Can we return home now?"

"It's been lovely, Chronos." Atropis stood up gracefully. "As always. But we really should return."

"Thank you for visiting, ladies. Always a pleasure to see you." Chronos smiled as they left the club, chattering happily. Silence settled over tables, broken only the melancholy voice of the saxophone. His glass clinked lightly against the table as he set it down, no longer interested in the clear liquid.

He could feel time spreading out around him as intimately as he felt the surface beneath his fingers and the carpet under his feet. It filled him, made him what he was. He was Time in its essence. He had lived for an eternity and had yet another eternal stretch before him. The laws of the universe were quite strict. Energy must be conserved, action and reaction. Incarnations were never, under any circumstances, to interfere with the affairs of men.

Chronos frowned, something he hadn't done in a million of Earth's years. His hands were bound; he could not take action despite his reservations. Not even for the world that he had grown so fond of and the wonderful martinis that he found here. A vampire had been granted a soul, a vampire had fought to regain his soul. A subtle difference in the wording that resounded with cosmic consequences. For a demon to fight not only himself but also against the very fate he was given had been written off as impossible. They could be cursed, a soul could be imposed upon them, but a demon would never attempt to rise above its nature. It would never succeed if it did. And no demon could resist the siren call of the Hellmouth. Those were the rules; the basic assumptions all morality was founded on and they could not be violated.

The impossible had happened. The unreachable star had been pulled down from the heavens. And the price? He couldn't believe it was worth it. Couldn't believe that there were no other options to be considered. He, of all things, understood the Balance and the cost of each decision. Evil had made its demands and they had been met. No more Slayers. The entire line would wither and die as the forces that created them were destroyed. That was the price of the world. The price for one vampire's soul.

Very slowly, he rose from his booth, leaving his beloved martini on the table. If he could not interfere then he would find someone who could.


	16. Dating Games

**Part Two: Finding Reason**

**Dating Games**

"That was Rupert Giles, sir."

Clair Iverson looked up from the mess that had once been Samuel Elliot's office. "Reading us the riot act, no doubt."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, sir."

Iverson sighed and abandoned the office to the capable hands of the cleaning crew. "How did William the Bloody discover our location?"

"There was a leak in New Orleans, sir." Roberts handed him a memo. "We have been unable to contact the man Elliot recommended to contain him. A mister Ethan Smythe."

"And Elliot?"

"Dead. As well as the rest of the team."

"Cara Sewell?"

"Also unaccounted for."

"But alive. Somewhere." Iverson waved Roberts into the conference room and took his place at the far end of the table. They waited in silence. Roberts read through his report several more times as Iverson drummed his fingers slowly, purposefully, on the tabletop. When the long hand of the clock fell to the six, tailored suits of all shapes and cuts began filing into the room. The seats filled quietly, somber faces surrounding the long table.

"Thank you for coming." Iverson stood once the last seat was taken and the door to the library swung shut. He paused for a moment, making sure he had everyone's attention before he began what would undoubtedly be the least popular speech in the history of the Watcher's Council. "We are unbelievably stupid. And blind. I had hoped to do better than the previous Council, who rendered themselves obsolete and were utterly destroyed by the First three years ago. We are not better. We have been greater fools than they ever were."

"I hardly think it is your place to accuse us of these things," Michael Weatherby fumed, almost coming out of his chair.

"Samuel Elliot is dead. Along with the team sent with him. We have lost one Slayer, have no idea where the new Slayer is, and are no closer to repairing our relationship with Buffy Summers. The vampire, William the Bloody, remains at large despite our best attempts to capture him. What part of this hasn't been a complete failure?" The answering silence was eloquent. Returning to his seat, he nodded to Roberts. "Read the list."

Roberts cleared his throat. "A Mary Beth Saunders was reported missing by her fiance five days ago. She came home this morning. Apparently she boarded the subway and got off five days later without any knowledge of time passing. In fact, she suffered no effects of her absence. There was a report of a dragon in Indiana."

"What's the purpose of this, Iverson?" another Watcher, Arthur Caldwell asked as he leaned forward. "We're all familiar with the supernatural."

"Then you're familiar with the theory of multiple dimensions existing in the same space."

"Naturally."

"And you're familiar with what happens when those dimensions begin to bleed together." More silence. "Continue Roberts."

"A unicorn was seen in Nepal."

"And Bigfoot in Oregon, I'm sure," Weatherby said dryly, looking bored.

"A nest of vampires in Sydney attacked a group of children on a field trip. In broad daylight. They didn't begin to combust until nearly an hour later." Roberts flipped the page over. "Earthquakes in various regions. Unusual storms in the south seas. Volcanoes. Herring falling from the sky in Denmark. The Richelieu wing of the Louvre moved ten feet to the left last Tuesday. An island off of Malaysia disappeared into the ocean. Atlantis rose."

"Atlantis?"

"We believe it to be Atlantis, yes." Iverson nodded. "There are pages and pages of similar and even more bizarre occurrences coming in from all around the world. Seeing creatures that have never been seen. Some that have been extinct for hundreds or thousands of years, others have never called this world home. Demons are changing. Humans are changing. The world is changing, gentleman. And it's our fault." He waited for that statement to sink in before continuing. "We were in a position to stop this. We let Elliot pursue his petty and misguided vengeance because we believed that it would work for the greater good. We were willing to make huge sacrifices in the hope that the chips would fall in our favor. It was a terrible mistake."

"It's not our fault that neither Miss Summers or the rogue managed to kill the vampire," Weatherby retorted sourly. "And it's certainly not our fault that Elliot got himself killed."

"We kept him in the dark because we believed it would further unbalance his already precarious mental state. We should have told him the truth." Iverson shook his head. "We have possibly compounded the problem. If we hadn't sent the vampire to Sunnydale, foolishly believing that he wouldn't survive, he might have stayed in New Orleans indefinitely without bringing attention to himself. One of our teams would have gotten to him eventually."

"And how many men were you willing to sacrifice to that monster?" Weatherby shook his head angrily. "This whole affair has been a ridiculous farce."

"That is precisely my point." Iverson was beginning to get impatient. "We have been profoundly stupid in dealing with this matter. We should have informed Miss Summers and arranged to have Faith released from prison much earlier. We should have sent them after him instead of the other way around."

"I seem to remember that Miss Summers rather has a penchant for fucking vampires instead of killing them."

Iverson ignored Weatherby's crude remark. "Our own Slayer, Cara Sewell, is missing in action. No other Slayer has been called so we believe her to still be alive. As far as we know, William the Bloody is still in New Orleans and for the time being, he has ceased his rampage."

"Do we know what set him off?" Caldwell frowned.

"Only rumors so far. It appears that the man hired to capture him mistakenly took a woman in his place."

"He was looking for her?"

"That is what we believe."

"Why would a vampire care?"

"You forget which vampire we are dealing with." Iverson bit his tongue to keep his temper in check. "He has already defied any of our classifications. We were ill equipped to deal with him and we still are. Now it is too late."

"Can it be reversed? Can the boundaries between dimensions be repaired?"

Iverson shook his head slowly. "That is not known. It is possible that the vampire's death will reverse the flux between our world and the others but there are no guarantees."

"How bad will it become?" The quiet woman who spoke reminded Iverson of a librarian, complete with steel rimmed glasses perched on her nose. What was her name?

"Worse case scenario. Total collapse of dimensional walls. Worlds bleed together. Mankind will suffer enormous casualties. The whole earth will undoubtedly be destroyed in the struggle. Demons and monsters will roam freely." Iverson placed his hands carefully on the table. "Man will fight back. There will be war unlike any we have known. Endless, bloody."

"Nuclear?"

"Most likely. There won't be anything left of this world but ashes and demons. Because we have failed. We have failed our entire race."

"Are we sure that this is because of the vampire? I don't understand how one creature can be so important." The Librarian woman frowned.

"There are a limited number of universal truths." Iverson leaned forward in his seat. "What do you suppose would happen if the second law of Thermodynamics ceased to be a law? Just stopped. What if gravity no longer played by the rules? Pushing out rather than pulling in. Chaos. Absolute chaos. The universe itself would be rearranged to accommodate the change." Seeing that the confusion on her face hadn't lessened, he continued. "All we know is from our seer. She was quite plain that William the Bloody has broken one of those laws. A metaphysical truth. We don't know which one or how but we now have proof that it has happened."

"Why now? What has changed?"

"We don't know. It is possible that there are other factors. Other forces keeping the balance to slow the deterioration between dimensions. The first rifts were seen four years ago but they weren't considered abnormal. Like earthquakes in California. Since Cara was called, the occurrences of supernatural phenomena have increased exponentially."

"Will we continue our attempts to capture him?"

"I don't see any other option. However, we will be approaching Miss Summers about the situation." Iverson pulled back from the table. "That is all. Are there any further questions?"

Caldwell raised his fingers to signal his desire to speak. "If the vampire's death doesn't halt the collapse, do we have other options? Magic perhaps?"

"We are still looking for answers. As of right now, we have none. Let us hope we don't need any other options."

* * *

The sound of a boot tapping against the linoleum caught Dawn's attention halfway through the sentence. A Slayer boot. It had been a good sentence too, one of the more interesting parts of _The Brothers Karamazov_. She'd decided to get a head start on the book for her European literature class. Truthfully, she was avoiding her sister and the inevitable questions that hadn't bothered to conveniently tag themselves with the answers. She'd take What the Hell was Wrong with Dawn Now? For two hundred.

"You'll wear out a perfectly good boot," she commented without looking up.

"And you're wearing out my patience."

Dawn drew her book closer to her face. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't make me ask Spike about it." Buffy's tone was threatening. "And I still haven't forgotten that you went down there in the first place. What were you thinking?"

"That he might want to see a friendly face." Dawn finally looked up, knowing she was only stalling the inevitable. "You're treating me like a child. I'm not."

"You haven't exactly shown a lot of maturity lately, Dawn." Buffy sat down on one of the stools and pulled the book out of Dawn's hands.

"Hey! I have to read that for class."

"Read later. Talk now. What's going on?"

"Nothing. I told you. Just whispers." Dawn tried to brush it off. She didn't want to admit how terrified she'd been. How her stomach had twisted into knots when she realized that Spike could hear the voice. The moment she had realized that she would never ever be entirely normal, even with Glory gone and the only known door that she fit into locked forever, she would never been ordinary. She didn't know if that meant she wasn't real or if she wasn't human. She didn't want to know anymore.

"Spike seemed concerned about it." Buffy almost choked on his name.

"Yeah. Well. He's like that. Always mollycoddling and being the big brotherly type. You know Spike." Dawn laughed, too high and too forced, and reached for her book.

Buffy kept the paperback out of her reach. "Is there anything you're not telling me? Spike said demons could hear the voice too."

"I'm not a demon." It came out with more force than Dawn had intended.

"But you are a Key."

"Not anymore." Panic edged its way into her voice.

"I'm sorry, Dawn." Buffy pushed the book across the counter with a sad shake of her head. "I'll talk to Giles. Maybe he can find more about where you came from. What you were before they gave you to me. More than last time anyway."

A lump welled up in Dawn's throat. Old pain she had thought long gone and buried crawled out to stick daggers in her heart. "Buffy."

"You're still my sister. That won't change." Buffy smiled. "We just have to figure out what's going on."

Dawn nodded, not trusting her voice enough to speak until the lump got a little smaller. "Where is Giles anyway? Did he head back to soggy old England already?"

"Doctor's office. Ethan was none too gentle with his broken arm." She reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from Dawn's face. "Don't worry. We'll take care of it. Whatever it is."

"I know. Just got used to being plain old Dawn, that's all." Dawn opened her book again and tried to find her spot. The words were blurry and her eyes refused to focus. She waited until Buffy left before putting the book down and staring out the kitchen window bleakly. It was still there, nagging at the back of her mind and tickling between her shoulder blades. The strange whispering voice that had woken her in the basement in time to see Spike a breath away from killing Cara. She knew that It had wanted him to kill her; screaming in Dawn's ears as It tried to convince the vampire to take that drink. When he hadn't, It had raged impotently in the background. All false tenderness had been stripped away; It was no longer seductive. Just furious. And evil.

The curtains breathed in the scent of the neighbor's lilacs, filling the kitchen. She wished the flowers were still there. A bright splash of color and the sweet smell of roses. Too bad flowers never lasted long enough. Like peace and comfort, they faded and withered before you were ready to let them go.

Closing her eyes against the pricking of unwelcome tears, she wished fervently that the monks hadn't done such a good job at creating her memories. Or maybe she just needed different memories. If her make-believe past had been dark and painful then it wouldn't hurt so much to remember. Wouldn't seem so hard if the past wasn't full of light and love. No nicknames, no teasing with Buffy, no picnics, no birthdays. No mother. They didn't have to give her a happy childhood, why had they bothered? Semi-happy anyway. She'd been broken by her parents divorce. Not really. But it still felt real.

This was Sunnydale. Everything weird was inevitably bad and she knew this would be the same. First, she's not a real girl, she's a Key. Then, of course she can't just be that random key that no one wants on their key ring and can't remember what it opens anyway, she has to be the one and only key that a really bitchy Hell God named Glory needs to get back to home. And that meant blood, badness, and death of the people she loved. Of course, with a handy-dandy superwitch in her pocket she could bring back the dead sister to do the horizontal mambo with the vampire who used to baby-sit her. It all got very confusing very quickly. But it ended up with Buffy being cold and angry most of the time. And alone.

Dawn shook away the gloomy storm clouds in her head and determinedly turned back to her book. The professor probably wouldn't take being a Key and hearing voices as a reason for not finishing the assigned reading. With her luck, he would probably give them a pop quiz as well.

"Hey, Dawn." Faith's voice broke into the silence. "Who's around?"

"Don't know." Dawn closed the book, watching as she shut the backdoor gently and sit down. Her face, which was still enough to give impressionable young minds nightmares about men with knives, had been greatly improved by Willow's healing spell. The bruises were gone, leaving only the thin, angry welts that had been much worse the night before. It was a chilling reminder of what had happened.

"Whatcha reading?"

"Dostoyevsky. Russian. Dark. Kinda depressing." Dawn put her hands over the cover and rested her chin on her wrists. "How're you?"

"Five by five. Will did wonders with the damage. I'm still gonna look like a spider web but at least it'll be a much smaller spider web." Her voice was breezy, covering up the tension with casual bravado. "What happened to the bastard anyway?"

"Buffy said the police came and took him away. Back to prison or wherever." Dawn shrugged. "She let Cara go. Made her promise never to come back."

"Cool. I guess."

"Where's Spike?"

"Hopefully asleep." Faith glanced out the window anxiously. "Still a few hours till sunset. Thought I'd head over after dark. See if he wanted to patrol or something."

"Yeah. Buffy said the whole demon population's been acting a little crazy. She could probably use the help."

"Be good to get back in the game. Probably scare a few vamps with the new make-over." She tapped the counter restlessly. Dark eyes turned to Dawn and her fingers stilled suddenly. "Hey, Dawn. Does Buffy still, you know, want Spike? I kinda got the whole unresolved issues vibe. What's up with that?"

"Big on the unresolved. Not that there was ever anything to resolve really. She doesn't talk about it. But I did hear that Giles totally laughed at her when she told him."

"Stuffy old Watcher Giles?"

"Yeah. Xander went postal. Naturally."

"He would."

"I wasn't too surprised. I was the first to know that he loved her. It was so obvious." Dawn picked at the cover of her book absently. "I think maybe she actually was in love with him. A little. But I don't know. She hasn't really dated anyone seriously since. It's like she's just given up on men completely."

"Too bad."

"Yeah. I've been trying to get her out there again. Not interested, I guess."

"But you don't think she's still in love with him?"

"Odds aren't good for a Buffy and Spike passion fest any time in this millennium. But there might be something there." Dawn glanced up at the Slayer. "Why? You thinking of taking the plunge into the world of undead boyfriends?"

"Nah." Faith looked down at her hands for a second. "Maybe. Would she be totally pissed if I did?"

"Wow." Dawn sat up straight on her stool. "I think this is the part where I tell you that if you hurt him, I'll beat you with a shovel. Or that's what Willow would tell you if Spike was her brother figure."

"It's not like that, Dawn." Faith blushed, looking everywhere but at Dawn. "It's just. There's something there. Maybe."

"Sparkage?"

"He's definitely a muffin."

"Is he interested?"

"Don't know. I don't think he's un-interested."

"That's something." Dawn tapped her book on the counter. Would Buffy care? There was always that slim chance that she'd totally wig out and try to kill Faith again. Not that Dawn had been around for that whole soap opera either. "Don't know what to tell you, Faith. She doesn't exactly let people in." It was impossible to keep the taint of bitterness out of her voice.

"Guess there's only one way to find out." Faith resumed her nervous rhythm, fingernails clicking against the countertop. "Not looking for death do us part or anything. Just a little bit of fun. And he doesn't care about the face issue, which is a good thing considering you know. Can't imagine a lot of guys not caring that I look like the Bride of Frankenstein."

Dawn stretched, biting back a yawn. "I say go for it. You too probably have a lot in common. More than Spike and Buffy do anyway."

"See? You should totally go for it. I'll run interference with Buffy if she decides to go psycho ex-girlfriend on your ass."

"Used to be evil, blood of the innocent on our hands. Buffy's tried to kill us both at some point and the Scoobies all hated us most of the time." Faith was smiling as she ticked off the things she and the vampire had in common.

"Assuming he's interested."

"Make him an offer he can't refuse." Dawn glanced at her watch. "You've still got a few hours. We could totally find you a really slutty outfit to wear."

Faith motioned to her face. "Does it really matter what I wear if I look like I took on the spinning end of a lawnmower?"

"You look tons better." Dawn grabbed her hand. "You're taller than Buffy so you can borrow some of my stuff. It's a little conservative. Buffy still freaks at my clothes. But I'm sure we can find something." She pulled the slightly nervous, slightly excited Faith up the stairs to her bedroom and started into the closet. "Is he still into black and leather?"

"I don't think so. I've seen him in jeans and moderate color." Faith grabbed the pair of jeans Dawn threw in her direction.

"Skirt is definitely the way to go. Not too short though." Dawn pulled out a handful of skirts, holding them up to the mirror by their hangers. "Too long? Too short? What do you think?"

Faith reached out, touching one of the soft floral skirts softly. "I like this one. It's pretty." Her cheeks flushed and she pulled her hand away quickly.

"That's it then." Dawn tossed the skirt onto the bed, wondering at the choice of the pale blue with white and pink flowers. "I usually wear white with it. And sandals." She pulled the halter top out, draping it over the skirt, and searched for a pair of strappy heels. Sixties style with thick wooden heels, they lent a certain carefree air to the outfit. "You won't be able to do any slaying in them but they make your legs look good."

Faith was holding the skirt nervously, eyes darting back and forth from the mirror to the fabric. "Thanks, Dawn

"Next. Hair and make up."

"I don't think-"

"You asked for help. I'm helping." Dawn pushed her down onto the bed and climbed up behind her with a hairbrush. "He may be on a red liquid diet but he's definitely still a guy." She wound her fingers through Faith's hair, trying to decide on the best course of action. Faith looked both bewildered and happy.

"You didn't have any sisters, huh?" Dawn asked casually as she pulled the bristles through the short dark hair.

"Never had any family. Well, my mom. She didn't really count."

"Didn't know I was there." Faith was stiff, her voice quiet. "Sheshe didn't really want me. I had my Watcher. After I was called. But she was killed. Vampire. He...he..."

"You don't have to talk about it."

"He made this look like nothing." Faith gestured toward her face. "I saw it. I couldn't stop him."

"But you got away."

"Yeah."

"That's good. Cause you're here now. And you'll have your own family someday." Dawn wrapped her arms around Faith's shoulders and smiled into the mirror. "And you have us. The Scoobies. We're sort of family. Not that anyone in their right mind would want us." Pulling away, she returned to the fifty strokes she was working on. "And after tonight you'll have a very hot boyfriend to do all those things that Buffy doesn't think I know about."

"You're a rebel." Faith smiled again.

They chatted idly about boys and college as Dawn expertly teased Faith's hair into a modern, sophisticated look. A curling iron added just a touch of pizzazz to the ends of the locks. Dawn hadn't realized the extent of Faith's injuries until she had the Slayer model the outfit. There were still bruises fading on her legs, bared by the knee length skirt and no amount of bracelets could cover up the scars around her wrists. The white halter top was only tied with what could have been a shoelace in the back, leaving the diagonal slashes across her back clearly visible. Her shock must have been evident on her face because Faith turned around to get a look at her back in the mirror.

"Damn. I knew it hurt like a bitch," Faith sighed. "He never said anything. Just told me I was beautiful. Liar."

"He's like that." Dawn had no trouble imagining Spike saying just that, regardless of the wounds.

"Hey, you were right. These shoes do make my legs look hot. Except for the big purple marks of course." Faith grinned as she spun around slowly in front of the mirror.

"And you're not going to be worried about your scars. I'm sure he won't care."

"He's already seen them all." Faith smoothing the skirt carefully, still transfixed by her image.

"Accessories next." Dawn opened her jewelry box and dug through it for the set Willow had given her for her eighteenth birthday. A string of illusion pearls with just a hint of blue in them and matching earrings. She slipped the necklace around Faith's neck, carefully setting the clasp before handing over the earrings. "You probably don't even need make up. Just a touch up here and there."

Faith blushed, remaining quiet as Dawn fussed over her make up. The teen tried to be extra gentle as she brushed on an earth tone blush. "It's Rhubarb. Weird name, disgusting plant, great shade." Darker, richer eye shadow; just a hint over her eyelids and mascara. "You've got great eyes, you don't even need eyeliner at all. All those lashes."

"Thanks." Faith fidgeted nervously before giving Dawn an awkward hug. "I mean it. Thanks. No one's ever done anything like this for me."

"You look great. He won't be able to resist you." Dawn pulled her back in front of the mirror for a look at the total transformation. "See? Beautiful. You're a Spike magnet. Spike superglue. Better than fresh blood with Wheatabix."

"Not gonna ask about that last one."

"This is so cool. Buffy never lets me dress her up." Dawn wrapped her arms around Faith and smiled into the mirror. It felt nice. She couldn't do this with Buffy. They chatted, they went to movies, they had girl nights, but Buffy was always somewhere else. She was more of a mother than a sister. It wasn't her fault but Dawn still missed having a sister who was just that.

"Dawn?" Buffy's voice startled them. "Faith? What are you doing?"

"Hey B." Faith moved out of Dawn's embrace self-consciously. "Little sis was just helping me get prettied up. What do you think?"

"It's different. For you." Buffy's smile was puzzled. "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing."

"She's making a move." Dawn glanced over quickly, suddenly unsure if she was supposed to be saying anything. Faith looked slightly panicked.

"Who's the lucky guy?"

"No one."

"Spike." It was already out before Dawn registered what Faith had said. She watched the two women stare at each other for a minute, not saying anything. Buffy was completely still, hand gripping the doorframe tightly. Faith had turned her eyes to the carpet, studying her toes.

Buffy finally broke the silence. "Oh. I guess it's really none of my business." She turned away, pausing just beyond the door. "Good luck. I think." She disappeared into her room.

"That wasn't so bad," Dawn said cheerfully.

"Yeah. She didn't try to stake my ass."

"Grab some grub and head over there. It'll be the best wake up call he's ever had." Dawn pushed her into the hallway and toward the stairs. "And don't be home until morning, at least. I want you out and about and having the time of your life."

"You're one crazy ass chick, Dawn."

"But you love me, I know. Now get." Dawn grinned as she hurried the Slayer into the kitchen. "And remember the shovel."

"Shovel, check. Don't hurt the vampire."

"Don't beat him up either."

"Check."

"And have lots and lots of hot monkey sex."

"Dawn!"

* * *

It's a long hard road out of Hell. If you've ever been there, you know what I'm talking about. The flat on your back staring at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes and a mouth full of cotton, head beating out a primal rhythm of pain, nerves replaced by red hot needles digging in under your skin kind of Hell. You'll promise any God who'll listen that you'll never touch another drop, never look at another woman with anything less than respect, help the old ladies across the street, and go to mass each Sunday if the pain will just end. Pick a God, any God, pray until your knees are bruised and bloody; you'll still be flat on your back in Hell and with any luck you'll get a few stripes to go with those bruises.

Been here before. A couple of times at least. After Glory dug around my ribcage, after my swan dive from the tower that left Dawn bleeding and one Slayer dead. Lying in the alley behind the Sunnyhell PD, lying in the caves of Africa. I'm an old pro at Hell, one of these days I'll get myself a badge and visor, set up a goddamn tour of the place and sell tickets. To the left, circle one and that Greek poofter Homer; should be there for bloody lack of talent, making poor sods suffer through the Odyssey, double penalty for the Iliad. On your right, level eight and home to the fraudulent, wave hello to Pope Nicolas III. He can't wave back but he can kick his feet a little. Poor bugger. Maybe I'll brush up on my Dante when the herd of buffalo in my head stops the fucking stampede. Maybe I'll just see how many people I can help on their way to the grave via second hand smoke and send a few of my relatives to whichever level of Hell vampires go to when we dust. All nine of which look better than the inside of my eyelids.

Days like this are the ones that leave you questioning the many virtues of reality and quality of life. Although in most cases the sentence to Hell has been well earned. If I'd gotten drunk and taken on half a dozen Fyarls, I'd at least be lying here with a sense of satisfaction. Suffering the morning after without the revelry of the night before takes all the appeal out of it. What's this world coming to when you go to sleep one morning and wake up at sunset feeling like shit? I could think of a more eloquent turn of phrase. Hit by a Greyhound. Run over by an Amtrak. The usuals. Bug, windshield. You get the picture.

Someone's banging away in the background, sending ripples of pain through my head. Where's a railroad spike when you need one? Assuming I could actually move enough to get out of bed and find the source of the noise. Bed? Where the fuck am I?

"Mr. Davis? It's Judy." Landlady. Apartment? Sweet lady, not too heavy on the intelligence scale but comforting and solid in that old fashioned, Pillsbury Grandma way. There was a note. I can't remember what it said.

"You had a package delivered. I signed for it." Her homemade apple pie voice is getting louder, sounding more like screech owls rattling in my ears. "Oh my! Are you alright? You look dreadful."

I think I managed some sort of groan. Maybe. It must have been pathetic because she started fussing like a mother hen. Crazy bint chattering incessantly about her grandma's remedies while she plumps up one of the pillows and pulls a blanket over my shoulders like a bloody child. I'm old enough to be her grandma's grandfather. Is she completely off her gourd? No, I don't want hot tea. Or a cold compress. I'm a horrible, terrifying, evil demon. At least I will be when I can move again. Damn.

"Do you have anyone to take care of you, dear?"

Just bring me a stake and I'll take care of myself, end this torment once and for all. At least I wouldn't have to listen to her yapping anymore.

"I'll bring over some chicken noodle soup. Just lie still and rest." She's gone. Finally. I should get up and lock the bloody door. Should. Can't. I wish I was dead.

* * *

"Hey. How's Bugsy?" Xander fixed his friendliest smile in place, hands stuffed in his pockets as he pretended to survey the selection of donuts. One couldn't be too choosy. What type of donut they liked said a lot about a person. Jelly filled, hot, glazed, chocolate, sprinkles; they all had meaning and required careful selection.

"He, um, hewell." The cute brunette behind the counter frowned and nervously adjusted the hat she wore as part of her uniform. Her nametag read Jane. Xander liked it. Nice, simple. Very non-demony.

"Did I just ask one of those questions? Like asking someone in a suit who died and then finding out they're going to their grandfather's funeral."

"No. It's just" Jane stopped again and shook her head. "My shift ends in fifteen. Could you wait around? I mean, I'm not going to go all Wolverine on you or anything if you can't. If you have plans, that's fine."

"No plans whatsoever. Completely plan free."

"Great. Thanks." She flashed him a smile and disappeared into the back of the donut shop.

"Not a date," Xander murmured as he slipped into one of the booths, fiddling with the latest promotion flyer and watching people move past the door. "Not a date. No dinner, no candlelight, no roses. Hence, no date. Maybe her cat's sick. Or she needs a cat sitter." He wasn't even sure he liked cats but he couldn't probably learn to like them if it meant getting on the good side of the cat owner. He was surprised when she flipped the closed sign over the door and untied her apron. Another hesitant smile and she was sitting across the table from him. "You're early."

"Slow night. Not big on the donut demand. Been thinking of spiking the batter. Maybe a little cocaine in with the powdered sugar."

"Keeps the customers coming back for more. Good plan."

"Except for that whole part where the cops figure out my sinister plot and it's off to the land of barred windows and hunter orange jumpsuits where some Xena wannabe makes me her bitch."

"There's that."

"Yeah." She tapped her fingers for a second, glancing down at her nails and then hiding her hands, as though she was ashamed of them. "So. Who are you?" She winced. "That sounded a lot more suave in my head. You know, all Bond girl. The new Bond girls that is. Nothing with Roger Moore, cause they were all brainless tramps."

"Harris. Xander Harris." Xander grinned and held out his hand. "Donut connoisseur. I work construction but it's really just a hobby. At night I'm a crime fighting hero."

"Super powers?"

"I'm working on laser vision. Hard on the eyes."

"Cool. I'm Jane Liddle." She shook his hand firmly before putting her hands back in her lap. "With a d, as in put a lid on it, not a t. My parents really didn't know ahead of time I wasn't ever going to qualify for the WNBA."

"Teased?" He hadn't noticed her height but now he realized she was probably shorter than Buffy.

"From kindergarten to high school. So much for equality and fair treatment of the vertically challenged. How'd the whole adolescent gig treat you?"

"Basic zeppo type."

"Jimmy Olsen?"

"The comparison has been made."

"Without the cross-dressing, I assume. Not that you wouldn't look smashing in a tube top and mini combo."

"Haven't had to chart that territory just yet." Xander laughed, trying to picture himself on patrol with Buffy in a pair of heels. Most of the time he couldn't believe the shoes she wore. How did she run in those things? "Would you like to grab a cup of coffee sometime? Maybe hit the Bronze. Not literally, of course. Unless you've got a tank stashed in your back pocket. That could be fun."

"Cool. Yeah." She fidgeted in the booth for a second, not meeting his eyes and gnawing at her fingernail.

"Are you okay? What about your cat?"

"You grew up here, right?"

"Yeah." Xander took a deep breath. He had a pretty good idea where this was heading.

"I know this isn't a normal town. That there are things happening here that people don't talk about. They look the other way. Like Roswell and Area 51. Only I think the military's gone now."

"Now? When were they here?" Feigning ignorance was always a good option.

"Army brat here. I can spot Marine training a mile away and there's no way those guys were just pampered frat boys." Jane shook her head. "They've been gone for a couple of years."

"A couple? As in two? As in less than, oh I don't know, six or seven?" The Initiative was long gone. He'd been there when it finally went down in a hail of gunfire and demon blood.

"They were here for a while then? You knew about them." The main problem with intelligent women was that they were, well, intelligent. He'd have to watch his words more carefully.

Xander held up his hands. "Wait. I didn't say that. Just wondering."

"I moved here three years ago. To go to school. I noticed a couple guys who didn't seem to fit in. Disappeared after a year or so. But there's been other weird stuff. Like all the creepy deaths and disappearances around here. And sometimes, even when you know someone's dead, you could swear you've seen them walking around at night. You know?"

"I've heard stories." Definitely not a safe topic of conversation, Xander thought. "How does this relate to your cat?"

"He's been watching me lately. Not the usual cat staring thing where they follow you around and wait for you to feed them. Real watching. Like he's trying to tell me something. Or maybe he's waiting for something to happen." She folded her arms on the table, resting her chin on her elbow. "I thought maybe, since you've been here longer, that you might know someone I can talk to. I've tried the vet. He just spouts a whole lot of mumbo jumbo about blood pressures and chemical balances. I need someone who isn't pulling an ostrich."

Xander smiled, reaching out to touch her arm comfortingly. Just a brush against warm, tanned skin. Gotta love those California girls. "No problem. One cat detective coming up."

"Thanks." She brightened and sat up straight, brown eyes shining. "Hey, it's not that late. We could catch a movie or something."

"Movie would be great."

"Popcorn?"

"Only if augmented with licorice."

"Two of the four food groups."

He slid out of the booth and started for the front door. "What are the others?"

"Swedish Fish and Dr. Pepper." Jane pulled off her hat, folding it carefully and starting on the hairpins. "Have to stay well rounded. Ready?"

"Ready." Xander left the donut shop with half a smile, listening to Jane talk about the places she had lived growing up. The hare-brained idea of asking her out hadn't gone too badly. And Willow probably wouldn't mind looking at Jane's cat. What could be wrong with a furry little kitty? Of course, that was the kind of question that usually ended up leading to all sorts of Hellmouth badness.

Crossing the street, he realized that he hadn't heard from Willow or Buffy that day. Not too unusual. They all had their own lives outside of the things that went bump in the night. Tomorrow would be soon enough.


	17. Straight On Til Morning

**Straight on 'Til Morning**

"Who does she think she is?" Buffy slammed the vampire into the crypt wall, driving the stake through his heart without waiting for an answer. Not that the vampire could have helped her anyway. Glaring at the dust on her arms, she brushed it off angrily and started back through the cemetery. There was one more fresh grave that could be spitting up a new member of the undead some time that night. She perched on top of a nearby tombstone, staring at the ground forlornly. She'd left Dawn oohing and ahhing over Faith's transformation, headed to her bedroom and climbed straight out the window to find something to kill.

"Maybe Ethan did brain damage along with that face. Of course, she's always been a total psycho. I'm sure jail only made her crazier." The stake tapped against the stone beneath her, making white pockmarks along the surface. "He probably won't be interested. She's not his type." Frustrated, she began chipping at the tombstone in earnest. "Except that Dru was crazy and a murderer. Which actually describes Faith pretty well. So maybe she is his type. But he is so not her type. Blond? Hello! Even though it's not natural. And he's not even a good guy. Although he is my ex, which is probably enough for her. That seems to be her type, my boyfriends."

Needing to move, she hopped off of the stone and began pacing at the foot of the grave. "And the whole Dawn bonding thing? What was that? Can't she come back to Sunnydale without taking over my life?" No answer. "Did you see the way they were? He was all comforty and sweet. It'll be all right, Faith. You're beautiful, Faith. You look like an angel." She stopped her exaggerated mimicry to turn back toward the grave with a sigh. "It's none of my business. They're both adults. They can do whatever they want."

Dirt shifted. She glanced down, waiting impatiently as the vampire crawled out of the grave. "Could you hurry it up a little? I'd like to get this done sometime tonight." The vampire just growled, standing up and baring his fangs.

"Have to let them make their own mistakes." She ducked one swing, clipping him with a sharp kick. "Let her make a fool of herself. She'll learn." The vamp grunted as she connected her knee with his solar plexus. "And I am not jealous! Not at all." Bone crunched against her boot, knocking his head to the side and sending him sprawling onto the lawn. "She can have him! I don't care." Pulling him up, she threw him against one of the taller stones and began pummeling him with her fists. "He's not." Punch. "My vampire." He tried to grab hold of her wrists. "Anymore!"

"And I don't care that he was Mr. Sensitivity." Dust scattered around the stake in her hand. "He used to be that way with me too. Sometimes. When I let him." She sighed and sat back down. Shuddering, she tried to block out the idea of Faith and Spike. Together. Not something she wanted to think about. Ever. There was no way. It wasn't possible. They couldn't, wouldn't. But what if they were? Right now. She shook her head vigorously, trying to clear away images of blonde hair and pale skin. Strong, vampire hands that were probably all over Faith at that very moment.

"Stupid vampire." She kicked at the ground and decided to head home. Any baddie that got in her way was in for a big surprise. Her rancor surprised her, leaving her stomach churning and a few of her emotional issues clamoring for attention. She didn't need this right now. These weird feelings of anger and frustration, and something she refused to label jealousy, even though the little voice in her head wouldn't agree to call it anything else.

"I'm home!" She closed the door behind her. "Patrol was fine. Nothing weird." No answer. Maybe they'd all gone out. Maybe everyone had a hot date but her. Including Faith. There was that feeling again.

"Buffy?" Giles appeared at the top of the stairs, starting down the steps with a book in hand. "I spoke with the Council earlier today."

"Big cover-up?"

"Surprisingly, no." Giles moved into the living room and took a seat on the couch. "They were quite upfront about Elliot and his intentions. They believed that he would fail. And they were quite apologetic about any trouble he may have caused."

"They apologized? That's a first. What about Ethan?" She hoped Giles didn't notice the involuntary lilt in her voice when she said his name. It had been the right thing. Ethan would have gotten out again and he would have come back with another insane scheme to hurt them. Just one more weight on her shoulders for her to bear, alone. Always alone.

"They didn't realize who he was, apparently. Elliot used the name Ethan Smythe."

"Do they know anything about what's making the demons wig out?"

"Iverson was quite vague, something about dimensional disturbances. He said they don't have any answers as of yet. But I have a few theories." Giles raised his book. "There has been an increase in the number of bizarre happenings at various places around the world. All similar to the Hellmouth. Epicenters of mystical energy have a normal energy level, like a frequency. It's possible that the demons may be responding to a change in the regular energy levels. It could also account for the increase in activity in these places."

"So they're picking up some sort of evil radio waves?"

"Essentially. I would like Willow to take a look at some of these. Her grasp of physics is slightly better than mine."

"She's probably out on a date. Like everyone else but me." Buffy curled up in the chair, not caring that her boots were on the furniture.

"Dawn will be back soon. She ran out for some snacks. At least I think that's what she told me." He looked at her curiously. "Is something bothering you, Buffy?"

"Just the usual moral quagmires that abound in my life." She shrugged, not really wanting to delve into her own thoughts. "And the whole thing with Dawn kinda freaked me out. It's easy to forget she's not really my sister. Strictly speaking."

"Was she able to tell you anything?"

"That demons can hear it too. At least, Spike could." That brought more of those images she was trying so hard to stamp out. Why couldn't they have just stayed in New Orleans?

"It's possible that she's hearing the very thing that is causing this strange behavior. You said it started recently."

"Things have been getting dicey around here for longer than that. Since Cara got here." Buffy frowned. "Maybe it's the three Slayers thing."

"Perhaps." Giles sighed and put his book on the coffee table. "I don't know if we'll be able to find anything else about the Key. Nothing more than we already know at any rate. There's a complete history of the different incarnations and the monks who guarded it but not much on the actual properties. Living energy matrix, green. That's about all we have."

"Too bad Spike's not chipped anymore. I never thought to have him hit Dawn." At Giles' frown she elaborated. "To see if she's human. Or at least human enough for the chip to fire."

"Yes. That would have been...informative. Though there might be other, less violent, ways."

"Willow could probably do something." Buffy shifted in the chair. "She usually only does magic when there isn't any other way but I'm sure we could convince her that this was one of those rock, hard place deals."

"There are Dawn's feelings to be considered, Buffy. She's still a young girl despite her insistence otherwise and she's quite sensitive about these things."

"I know, Giles. And we all assumed that when the monks said they put the Key into human form that it made Dawn human. But we don't know that. If she's hearing some sort of demon talk show then there has to be something different about her. And I'm not going to hide it from her. Not this time." She propped her feet up on the coffee table, wondering if her mother was rolling in her grave at the scuff marks on the wood. "Crisis has passed. Ethan's gone and the Council's not trying to kill us anymore. Please tell me they're not going to keep trying."

"No. Of course not. They never intended it to go that far."

"And there's a bridge in Brooklyn for sale." Buffy shook her head with disbelief. "They've been nothing but pains in my ass since they twisted your arm to stick me with those needles. Have I mentioned that I still haven't forgiven them for locking me up with crazy?"

"This is an entirely new Council."

"And not exactly trying hard to do better than the last one. Maybe they'll get themselves blown into little pieces too."

"Buffy."

"They were willing to kill us all. You, Dawn, Xander. Doesn't do much for the whole trust factor."

"I was advised to speak to the new Head Watcher tomorrow." He glanced at his watch. "Clair Iverson is a reasonable and intelligent man. I'm sure that changes will be made." He only sounded half convinced.

The front door swung open and Dawn smiled as she bounced through the doorway, a shopping bag dangling from one hand. "Sugary goodness!" She held up the bag. "Is this the serious discussion about me that I'm not supposed to hear?"

"Come here, Dawn." Buffy couldn't help smiling. "We were talking about you. And the Council."

"Wankers." Dawn took a seat next to Giles. "Can we kill them? Or would that be wrong?"

"A world of wrong. But Giles says they're not trying to kill us anymore."

"And we believe that why?"

Giles looked into the bag, eying its contents suspiciously. "When I spoke with them, they acknowledged that Elliot was out of control. Iverson had been trying to convince him to seek professional help for some time."

"He did. Went by the name of Ethan Rayne." Giles shot Buffy a look over the top of his glasses.

"And what about me?" Dawn stopped fidgeting for a moment, her eyes turning serious.

"We've just started looking. I'm sure we'll find something," Giles said reassuringly. "Nothing to be worried about for now. Let us know if anything changes."

"Cool." Dawn pulled the bag onto her lap and began digging through the contents. "Jelly Bellys, gummy worms, and some of those peach chewy things with all the powdery stuff."

"Planning a sugar binge?"

"To help me with my studying. Keeps me awake when the boredom hits."

"You'll rot your teeth."

"I brush. And I floss." Dawn ripped open one of the bags. "Worms?"

"No, thank you." Giles waved away the offer and turned his attention to his book.

"Sis?"

"Maybe later." Buffy hesitated. "So...you looked like you were having fun. With Faith."

"Yeah. You should have seen her. All worried and nervous. Like she'd never been on a date before." Dawn paused. "Not that it was a date since he didn't even know she was coming over. Good surprise, huh?"

"Dawn. I really don't think you should encourage Faith like that."

"To what? Get all dressed up? She looked good, didn't she? Even with all the scary cuts and bruises."

"To have sex with a vampire." Buffy winced when Giles looked up, staring at them with surprise. She almost groaned when he removed his glasses and began polishing them. "It's really not the smartest thing to do, Dawnie. And Faith's vulnerable right now. She's been through something."

"Do I want to know what's going on?"

"Nothing bad," Dawn said quickly. "I think it's romantic. It's not like they're getting married. Just a little sex. No harm, no foul."

Buffy put her feet squarely on the floor. "You're missing the point. Sex plus vampires equals bad. What if his soul has one of those happiness clauses? Did you think of that?"

Dawn snorted. "In case you never noticed, even when Spike was all grrr, he was never that evil. Not like Angelus. Spike wouldn't hurt Faith. He never hurt me."

"He had a chip."

"He didn't want to."

"Because he was in love with me. Which he isn't any more." Buffy was surprised at the pain in her voice. He really wasn't in love with her. He wasn't her vampire anymore. It wasn't supposed to hurt. "So there's nothing holding him back if his soul goes AWOL."

Giles shook his head with disbelief. "Is there something about Spike that I don't understand? Some influence he has over women that turns their brains into mush?" Buffy figured he was two seconds away from making that clucking noise with his tongue.

"It's the cheekbones," Dawn offered as she bit one end off of a gummy worm.

"Maybe the whole bad boy thing," Buffy suggested weakly.

"He's still a vampire. Soul or no. It's completely beyond my comprehension that you, all of you, continue to overlook that fact."

"All part of the charm package." Dawn stood up and headed toward the stairs. "You need to relax. Faith can take care of herself. And if you ask me, they're perfect for each other."

Buffy waited for the sound of her sister's door closing before she turned back to Giles. "There's nothing you can do now, Giles. The damage is already done."

"I really wonder if this whole world would be better off without him. If you could have been spared some pain if he'd never come to Sunnydale at all."

"Not to mention having to put up with him in your bathtub. And watching Passions with him."

"I thought I told you never to mention that again."

"And it's not like this hasn't happened before. Slayer sleeps with vampire. Not the end of the world. What could possibly go wrong?" She winced. "Never mind. I'm sure another looming apocalypse will make me eat those words. Is sex ever a good thing?"

"Apparently not in Sunnydale."

* * *

The walk was over too soon and Faith was standing in front of the apartment door frozen in place. How had she let Dawn talk her into this? She'd only meant to ask if Buffy was still interested. Just an innocent question.

"Fuck. This is crazy." She almost ran her fingers through her hair, stopping only millimeters away as she remembered not to mess up Dawn's hard work. What if he wasn't interested? What if he didn't want her? Why was she even thinking about it? Spike was a member of the Buffy Boyfriend Club. She'd promised herself she wouldn't do this. With a sigh, she sat down on the top step and watched the cars pass by.

Maybe she could go to the Bronze. Or patrol. Stay out late enough that Dawn would be asleep. She wouldn't have to admit that she hadn't actually seen Spike. That was ridiculous. She touched the necklace around her neck lightly, still not sure what to make of Dawn's attention. Fussing over her, brushing her hair. Faith's mother had brushed her hair a few times when she was too high to be angry and bitter. When she had laughed and smiled, working until Faith's hair shone and treating her like a daughter. Just bits and pieces of memories that were painful in an entirely different way. It felt strange to be treated like she belonged. Like a sister.

"One more thing B has that I don't," she told the night softly. When she had arrived in Sunnydale with nothing but fear and a duffle bag of clothes, it had seemed like a fairytale. Buffy was a princess, with a mother and sister and friends willing to fight at her side. Faith had hated Buffy because she'd wanted those things so badly. Rationally, she knew that Buffy wasn't perfect and her life had been hard in a lot of ways Faith didn't understand. But jealousy had still eaten away at her until there was nothing left but rage. It wasn't fair. She'd learned in jail that life wasn't fair. Life was a bitch.

She didn't want to be jealous of Buffy anymore. As long as she was, her jealousy would control her. The way Mayor Wilkins had controlled her with kind words and affection, the way her despair and her rage had controlled her after she had woken up from her coma. Leaving her trapped by her own life. She wasn't going to let anything control her ever again.

Glancing back at the door, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. Should she be helping Buffy patrol? Sacred duty and all that. If she just walked away, no one would be the wiser and Spike would never have to know. She would never have to wonder if he was settling for her because he couldn't have Buffy. She would never have to feel the sting of his rejection. If she just walked away.

Apparently her legs had other plans. They wouldn't move. Conflicted, she rubbed the hem of the skirt lightly between her fingers, savoring the whisper of the fabric in the quiet night. She wasn't asking for undying love or commitment. Just a roll and tumble. She could have gone to the Bronze and found half a dozen willing young men. Or not. Now that her face looked like a horror mask. Is that why she was here? Because she knew Spike would look past the marks on her skin. What was she looking for? Comfort? Assurance?

"I'm not ready to do this." She shook her head and stood up reluctantly, brushing the bits of dust and gravel off of Dawn's skirt carefully.

"Oh hello! Are you here to see William?" The cheerful voice startled Faith.

"Uh." Faith glanced at the round, pepper haired woman with the friendly smile and decided to play along. Did she mean Spike? "Yeah. No answer. I was just leaving."

"Please stay. He really needs someone to look after him, poor dear." The woman held out a large Tupperware. "I think he had a little too much to drink last night, if you know what I mean." She winked at Faith, blushing like a little girl who shouldn't have known what a hangover was.

Faith smiled brightly and took the Tupperware from the woman's outstretched hands, "Thanks. I'm sure he'll really appreciate this, Mrs?"

"Call me Judy. I'm the landlady." Judy the Landlady patted Faith's hand. "I was so glad when that package arrived for him today. I put it inside the door. So many tenants just disappear here in Sunnydale without a word or a by-your-leave. And he was such a nice boy. I just loved his column in the Press. I do hope he writes more of them soon. Such a sparkling wit, that boy." She headed down the pathway into the darkness, leaving Faith standing awkwardly with a large Tupperware bowl of something warm.

It smelled good and reminded Faith that she hadn't eaten. Spike wouldn't mind. Shaking herself firmly, she knocked on the door. No answer. The doorknob twisted in her hand, swinging inward with a gentle nudge.

"Spike? It's me. Faith." The apartment was dark. Clumsily, she searched for the light switch with one elbow, blinking as the lights flickered on. "Spike?" She left the Tupperware in the kitchen and tiptoed down the hallway to the bedroom. Turning on the light revealed the vampire sprawled over the bed, still fully dressed, with a pillow held firmly over his head.

"Spike? Are you alright?" Her only answer was a groan. Frowning, she moved to the edge of the bed and tugged at the pillow. "Come on, big guy. You get some spiked blood or something? No pun intended of course." She poked him lightly in the ribs.

"Bloody hell!" He pulled away from her, clutching his ribs as the pillow fell away.

"What?"

"That fucking hurts." Closing his eyes, he turned his head away. "Everything fucking hurts."

"What happened to you?" Faith pushed up the edge of this t-shirt, shocked to see that his pale skin was dark with bruises. Running her fingers carefully over his chest, she decided that half his ribs were broken. "What the hell did you do? Play chicken with a Mack truck?"

"Jumped out a bloody window."

"When?"

"Looking for you."

"Spike, that was days ago." She frowned again, turning his face to see more bruising over his eyes and jaw. "You look like shit."

"Thanks." Bloodshot eyes blinked at her once before he tried to pull the pillow back over his head. "If the crazy lady comes back, I'm not here."

"Already ahead of you. Interception successful." She bit down on her fingernail thoughtfully. "Do you have any blood here?"

"No."

"Where do I get some?"

His voice was muffled. "Butcher's closed. Willy's place."

"Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back."

"Do I bloody look like I'm going anywhere?"

"At least your sense of humor isn't broken." Faith patted his hand hesitantly. "My turn to take care of you, dead boy. Just relax until I get back." He groaned into the pillow.

Dawn hadn't been quite right about the shoes. They weren't ideal slaying footwear but they held their own as she hurried through the cemeteries to the demon hangout across town. Most of the demons at the bar left her alone anyway. Probably the new look.

"Blood. Fresh." She glanced once at the bartender, wondering what species he was and wishing she'd paid more attention to Giles. Not really, but somehow it felt better to think she should be wishing she'd listened to his lectures about demons.

"Human?"

She faltered, unsure what to ask for. Would feeding Spike human blood mess with his head? "What else do you have?"

"Pork, beef, a few exotics."

"Pigs blood then. To go." She glanced around nervously as she waited for the bartender to return. It was quiet. A few vamps and some random demons who didn't look familiar.

"Got three bags left."

"I'll take 'em." She slid the money across the counter and piled the bags of blood in the crook of her arm. Almost home free. Halfway to the door, a vampire stepped out in front of her, blocking her exit.

"Hey." The vamp smiled at her. "You're pretty little thing. Except for a bit of damage."

"A bit? Have you had your eyes checked lately?" She tried to step past him.

"Won't be lookin' at your face anyway."

"Right about that, asshole. You won't be looking at anything if you don't get out of my way."

He laughed, his buddies joining in and halting their game to watch. "I like the feisty ones. They fight so good when they're dying."

"Are all vamps morons? Or is it just you?"

"What's the blood for, little girl?"

"A friend. Maybe you've heard of him. Goes by the name of Spike." She saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "And if I don't get this blood to him pronto, there won't be enough of you left to dust by the time he gets through with you. Assuming I don't kick your sorry, undead ass first."

"Hey." The vampire held up his hands and backed away. "Spike's a good guy. Now that he's gotten rid of that chip and all. A friend of his is a friend of mine."

"Yeah. Whatever." She stopped trying to think of a way to get the pool cue from his friend and use it for a stake. Much as she wanted to wipe those smug grins off of their faces, she didn't have time. Maybe she'd come back later and show them what a Slayer was. That sounded like fun.

* * *

"When did Spike get back in town, man?"

"How should I know?"

"Why's he got a human pickin' up pig blood for him anyway?"

"Do I look like fucking Einstein?" Alvin, now known as Cracker, had never been known for his patience even when he was alive. He'd chosen the nickname because he cracked his knuckles constantly and it sounded much better than Alvin. His sidekick, Benny, was a smaller, younger vampire who hadn't amounted to much with a heartbeat and wasn't on the track to greatness now that he was dead.

"Should we tip Cable off? He was looking for Spike." Benny looked around nervously. He reminded Alvin of a mouse, always twitching and wiggling.

"Course we will."

"Do you think he'll let us in on the big stuff? You know. What's goin' down."

"You're pathetic, Benny. Talk like a normal demon."

"I was just saying."

"And you should have kept your stupid mouth shut." Alvin smacked the back of Benny's head with the cue. "I'll tell Cable that Spike's here. You just mind your own business."

"Just saying, is all." Benny rubbed the welt at the back of his skull. "He's been promising that something big is coming. Figured we could be in on it."

"We will." Alvin shrugged and turned back to the pool game. "Break." The brightly colored spheres scattered over the green felt as he wondered how much the information would be worth to the New Orleans magnate. Maybe enough to do some traveling. He'd always wanted to find out if European women tasted better than American women.

* * *

"The Powers wish to discuss the arrangement with you." Their emissary was a slender, elegant woman with green-gold skin, grey eyes, and black hair pulled tightly into a braid. Dressed in robes that bore the signature crests of the Powers, she was lovely and regal. And she was boring the Incarnation of Truth to tears.

"I have nothing to say to them." Alatheia waved her hand, trying to return her concentration to the miniature castle she was building. Lovely hobby. Took her mind off of the screeching hypocrisies of man.

"They are concerned about their Champion."

"What about him?"

"It has been brought to their attention that there is another vampire with a soul. The prophecies speak of only one." The emissary took another step forward, looking around the thatched cottage nervously. She probably would have been more comfortable surrounded by pillars and pink fog. When would the Powers realize that truth, in its purest form, was dirty and messy and more often than not, ugly as sin?

"Wouldn't be the first time some musty old scroll was ninety nine percent real and one percent hoax." Alatheia glanced up, peering down her nose at the woman who had invaded her haven.

"What will happen to their Champion?"

"Don't know. Don't care."

"They are concerned that Balance will be lost."

"They're embarrassed because they've been running for the wrong goal line. Don't give me this bullshit. They're covering their asses and they know it." The Incarnation shook her head. They still hadn't learned, in the thousands of years they'd been sending their messenger girls. You can't lie to Truth Itself.

"It is not for me to speculate their motives."

"There's nothing to tell them. All bets are off. No one saw this coming. Not even me." Alatheia paused thoughtfully before tapping another miniscule brick into place. "There have been rumblings. Rumors of a summit. I can't get involved even if I wanted to. Which I don't. It's perfectly ridiculous to me."

"Will they be invited to attend this meeting?"

"Most likely. All the faiths will be represented." She gave the girl a wry smile. "We will be there as well, to oversee the happenings. Although I still don't understand why the fuss over one little world. It's not like they don't fall apart all the time."

"Such a refreshing perspective." A man's voice, smooth and resonate, filled the cottage.

"Chronos, you old bear. What brings you to my neck of the woods?" She motioned to the girl. "She was just leaving." The emissary took the hint and vanished. "Powers again. Always trying to sway things to their side."

"You agree with the conditions of the bargain?"

"I don't agree or disagree. I see what is. The whole and unvarnished truth. You know that." She fluffed the artificial green of a tiny pine tree before sticking it forcefully into the fake hillside.

"You don't believe it defeats the very purpose?" Chronos settled into a chair, watching her carefully.

"The difference between truth and belief is infinitesimal. A grain of sand, the farthest reach of nothingness. All in that space between what is and what is believed." She pulled her glasses off, turning to face him. "You don't agree." Her voice betrayed her surprise at his sentimental attachment to the human dimension. "You like that world."

"It's the martinis. My weakness."

"You've been there too long, friend. You've let their humanity rub off on you."

"Is that wrong?"

"You cannot interfere, Chronos. You'll rip apart the seams of reality if you do. All worlds will be lost instead of just one." Alatheia waved her glasses at him, feeling rather like a schoolmarm reprimanding a precocious child.

"There is precedence for action."

"One! A single case in your very long life and it left entire dimensions in ruin." With a frown, she sat down beside him, her model completely forgotten by the disturbing visit. "I see your intentions but I don't understand them." She could see that he genuinely and humanly cared for the world and its beings. It was quite vexing.

"Then you should see that I believe this world is worth saving. Regardless of the costs."

"The vampire. This is because of the vampire." Alatheia stared at him, a stranger wearing the face of Chronos. It was impossible for a lowly demon to have inspired even an Incarnation to take up the cause.

"There has to be a way, Alatheia. There is always a loophole." Chronos smiled and patted her hand. "And if anyone knows of a loophole, even the smallest one, it's you."

Alatheia pulled away, startled and unnerved by his request. Moving back to her castle to mask her disquiet, she worked in silence for several minutes, concentrating only on placing the small chunks of stone and wood. Almost subconsciously, she reached out for the threads of truth, following each of them to their conclusion. There were rules that had to be obeyed, laws to be followed. Each action had its unavoidable consequence. Inescapable. Unless. She paused as she touched one of the strands. Her hands stilled over the moat and she turned around slowly. Some things were set in stone, others in clay. Even those that appeared immovable could be shaken if a single pebble was pushed over so slightly in another direction.

"There might be a way." She began cautiously. "I only see what lies conceal."

"But there is hope."

"It is possible." With a tired sigh, she shook her head. "If you have had success threading the eye of a needle with a camel or nailing jello to a tree, then you can have the hope you seek. There is a loophole. Just one. I hope you know what you're asking for."

* * *

The pounding in my head seems to lessen as Faith helps me swallow a glass of blood, one hand supporting my head. Irony never ceases to show her hand in my life. Has it only been days since I had done the same for the Slayer? With a shudder, I let Faith maneuver me into a sitting position, pillow behind me against the headboard.

"I'm gonna bring the TV in here. You can veg."

"Thanks." I didn't bother trying to smile. The smell of her lotion was a balm to my raw senses. For lacking of anything else I can do, I listen as she rearranged the sparse furniture; moving the table to the end of the bed, carrying the television from the living room where it had been collecting dust, fighting with the cables. In my mind, I can almost picture her. Almost. My brain is still too fuzzy to really focus on anything.

"There. When you're feeling better. I'm gonna eat." She places the remote next to my hand and leaves again. I can smell chicken noodle soup. At least it won't go to waste. I feel the bed shift as she climbs onto it and settles in next to me. "I put the package on the kitchen counter. Mind if I watch something? I'll keep it low."

"Go ahead." My voice scratches at my throat and I try not to wince as the television comes to life and the steady chatter of voices assaults my ears. I should have asked her to pick up a bottle of whiskey. Make that a case. Settling for blood, I reach for the glass, following the smell.

"I'll get that." I can feel the warmth of her skin as she reaches over me to refill the glass. She smells of magnolias and chicken noodle soup. Heaven. She presses the glass into my hand and this time I try to smile. How hard can it be? Ouch. Damn.

"What're you watching?" The least I can do is be sociable.

"Infomercial. Not much on. Looks like a couple of movies later. Horror stuff."

"Always need more of that."

"Yeah. Fake blood, fake vampires. It's all good." She's quiet again and I can hear her finishing the bowl of soup. Did I even have bowls? I guess so. Good for me. If I don't move, not even a blink, then I can keep the agony to a minimum. For the first time in my unlife, I'm not bored. Hurts too much to be bored.

"Everyone okay?" I manage to croak.

"Five by five. B sent that bastard off with the men in blue. Giles is in research mode." The mattress shakes a little as she ditches the empty bowl and repositions herself on the bed.

"Home sweet home."

"Yeah. Won't be sorry to see it go. Again." Another shift. "Do you think we'll ever really get out of this place? I've tried. Can't seem to stay away."

"Hope so." Don't shrug, don't shrug. God, that hurts. "Can't seem to get out myself." More silence as she flips through the channels in search of something to watch. "You don't have to stay. You've already done more than enough."

"Not a word from you, dead boy." There's laughter in her voice. "You took care of me. I'm gonna take care of you. Don't argue."

"Yes ma'am." I'm relieved. I can't even get out of bed and I don't know how long this is going to last. If my wounds are days old, they must have been worse than I thought. How was I even able to move around? Does my life always take the most twisted and confusing path available? There's got to be someone out there thinking up new ways to drive Spike around the bend. Too much thinking. Hurts.

"Need to lay down?"

"I'm good." Laying down meant moving and moving meant more screaming from muscles I didn't know I had. The background noise changes and she's back to cycling through the stations. Slowly, I raise the glass of blood to my lips, shaking as I begin to drink.

"Here." Her hand covers mine, steadying my grip. I can feel her warmth soaking into my skin and muscles. After I finish, she stays at my side, one arm slipping around mine and spreading heat through my side.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Then we'd have to do the whole big thing about how you saved my life and cleaned me up. Not pretty. Lots of tears and hugging."

"Can't do that." Tired, I lean against her, my head resting on her shoulder. "Not dignified."

"Yeah." There's something bothering her, I can hear it in her voice.

"Bored?"

She responds too quickly. "No."

"Liar."

"Not bored. A little worried is all." She slips her fingers through mine. "You're thrashed, Spike, and it doesn't make any sense."

"Didn't know you cared."

"Crazy vamp." Her fingers brush against my forehead, pushing aside a wayward curl. "I owe you."

"Good." I can tell she's surprised by the sharp intake of breath. "Cause I need you. Can't even move without you." Silence. Her heartbeat speeds up, sounding loud and strong in my ears. Finally she moves against me and I can feel her fingers along the hem of my t-shirt.

"Try to sleep, okay?" She's gently working my t-shirt up over my chest and arms. Clenching my teeth against the pain only brings more pain in my jaw but it keeps me from the humiliation of moaning. Boots are next to go. She helps me down onto my back, thankfully leaving my jeans intact, and pulls the blankets up over my chest. The bed quivers as she moves away.

"Faith."

"Yeah?"

"Stay. Please." For a moment I wonder if she's already gone. Then I feel her weight as she stretches out beside me. Warm fabric and warm skin brushes against my arm and side. Heat soothes and eases the aching in my bones. I listen as her heartbeat slows to the even pulse of sleep.

Finally, I open my eyes as far as I can without excruciating pain. The overhead light is off, leaving the flickering screen to illuminate the room. Carefully turning my head to the side, I see that Willow has done her magic. The bruises are gone and only a faint network of red welts remains. Her short hair has been styled and curled. Dawn, most likely. That makes me smile again. She shivers in her sleep and I force myself to reach across and pull the blanket up over her bare shoulder. What was she wearing anyway? Couldn't be more than a handkerchief and a bit of string. There are pearls around her neck and in her ears. Strange. Burrowing into the blankets, one arm slides across my stomach as she pulls herself closer to me. Ouch.

Exhausted from that miniscule movement, I rest my head back on the pillow and stare up into the sputtering shadows cast by the television. It was peaceful. Restful. The pain was lessening and maybe, just maybe, Hell was slipping away. Could I dream of heaven? Ever hope to find a place of eternal peace rather than eternal torment. Would I be damned with the rest of the vampires? Would I be judged as a human? Was there anything at all after death? Buffy had spoken of a place of peace and comfort. Could it be possible for me to find that place? A demon. A vampire.

It was ridiculous speculation of course. I was no longer just a demon with a human face and the same rules wouldn't apply. I didn't even know which set of conventions applied to anything now. I was a moth crawling out of cocoon, spreading wings I didn't have before, seeing the world through new eyes. Apples and oranges.

Strip away anything resembling a friend, remove my leash, tear everything I care about from my hands; what was left? At the end of the night, when I hid from the rising sun because it stood for life and I stood for death, what was left? Four years ago the answer would have been nothing. Without Sunnydale, without Buffy and Dawn, there would have been nothing left. When I had run to Sunnydale, hell bent on killing Faith and destroying myself, what had remained when my sanity was shattered by grief and confusion? I had lost everything. I had burned to ash, swallowed up by the endless void of despair. Had cheated the eternal torment that I had righteously believed was mine to endure, that was to be my redemption. Played by men and demon alike, led on a merry dance by fate and destiny. All of it for reasons I didn't know and couldn't comprehend.

Lying in that bed with Faith at my side, I realize that I have come full circle. Back to the beginning. Was I monster or man? Who am I? What do I deserve?

Gazing up at the ceiling, I wonder if there are unseen forces looking down, pulling strings and changing events to suit their higher purposes. Was I chosen for this path that I walk? Had I always been meant to end up here, in Sunnydale, with a Slayer in my arms? Imagining the night sky full of stars twinkling down through the ages, I marvel at the expanse of space stretching out from the Earth. My actions seem insignificant against the vastness of the universe. Ripples in a great ocean, doomed to be swallowed by larger waves and scattered by the wind. What was left when nothing I did made a difference?

I feel the strings fall away, taking the burden of cosmic struggle from my shoulders. We do what we can, Verek had said. That was all. I am just Spike. A vampire with a soul. In the end, all I have, all I will ever have is me. Just me. Friends will come and go. Women will drift away, grow old, move on. Battles will be won and lost. All that matters is what I choose to do with the moment staring me in the face. Now. Here. That is all I have. A clean slate. What I deserve is life. I deserve to live, to choose, to love, to be. Nothing more, nothing less.

There is a monster in me but I am not a monster. There is a man in me but I am not a man. It is simple, it is easy. My future is in my own two hands. That is all anyone can ever deserve.

And right now, this very moment, I'm going to close my eyes and listen to the steady cadence of Faith's heartbeat. Sunnydale will still be there in the morning. Good things come to those who wait and I've got all the time in the world.


	18. Bell, Book, And Cat Tales

**Bell, Book, and Cat Tales**

Willow looked down at the sleek tabby. Its luminous green eyes gazed back unwaveringly. "It's a cat."

"We know it's a cat, Will." Xander glanced between his friend and the petite woman sitting nervously on the edge of the couch cushion. "Is there anything, you know, aura-y or vibey about said cat?"

Willow smiled apologetically. "I don't usually handle animals. I'm not sure what to look for but nothing seems to be wrong."

"I'm just glad you guys didn't laugh at me." Jane reached out to scratch the cat's ears. "Nice to finally meet some people who aren't crawling under their pillows at night."

"Oh, we still crawl. But it's because we know what's out there rather than just plain old fear of the dark and creepy." Willow turned back to the cat, trying to see something that might be construed as strange behavior. He was sitting quietly, sphinx-like, purring under the soft rubbing of Jane's fingers. With a twinge of sadness, she wished Tara were there. She had always been better with animals than Willow. "You said he's just staring at you?"

"All the time. He never used to. He used to do cat things." Jane continued to stroke the feline lovingly. "Like chase insects and string. Sometimes he'd bring a mouse home and leave its carcass on the doorstep. Sweet little things like that."

Willow glanced at Xander; he shrugged. "When did it start?"

"About a week ago. He's not even interested in his toys anymore. The vet says he's perfectly healthy." She pulled the cat into her lap, cradling him gently and pressing soft kisses into his fur. "But I know something's wrong. I've had Bugsy for ten years and I can tell there's something different about him. I know he's getting old but it's not that. It's like he's waiting for something. Or listening. I don't know."

"I can do research. We have books." Another glance to Xander. How much had he told her? "About unusual stuff. There might be information about cats. And they can sense things. Earthquakes, that kind of stuff. Maybe he's picking up something from you. If you're stressed or unhappy, he might be reacting to that."

"I don't think I've been more stressed out lately. Nothing's changed." Jane gave them a half-hearted laugh. "You must think I'm crazy. Just a cat after all. And he's probably just getting old, leaving the kitten behind and becoming all responsible. Maybe a nice shiny convertible." She looked down at Bugsy. "That works for human males. How 'bout a new carrier, Bugs? With a sunroof. We could put James Dean decals on it. You could be a rebel." Bugsy meowed and nudged her gently with his nose.

"I think he likes." Xander flashed Willow a grateful look. "I'm sure a nice fluffy Miss Kitty would do the trick."

"Oh, he's neutered. But you're right. Maybe he misses his wild days of sexual abandon." Jane smiled shyly at him. "Thanks for trying, Willow. It was really nice to meet you."

"Me too. I mean with the niceness of meeting you, not that it's nice to meet me. Xander told me he had his eye on this girl..."

"Will." Xander was doing his deer in the headlights impression.

"Which I'm sure I wasn't supposed to mention but since it's already out, I'm going to shake your hand and wish you luck with your cat."

Jane laughed. "Glad to know I wouldn't have made a fool out of myself asking him out. You can't be too careful in this town. People usually aren't what they seem to be."

"You're right about that." Willow gave Bugsy's ears a good scratch before picking up her handbag. "I'll stop by Buffy's, see if Giles has any ideas. See ya later."

"Say hi to the gang for me."

"No problem." Willow left them sitting on Xander's couch trying to coax Bugsy into a rousing game of Hopping Shoelace. She was relieved. When Xander had asked her to take a look at the girl's cat, she had been surprised but it had given her an opportunity to check out Jane Liddle. Since she was the best friend and protection of Xander's heart fell under her jurisdiction, she needed to be aware of new developments.

The engine of her Nissan hummed quietly as she wove through traffic. She couldn't remember reading anything about cats. Maybe animals in general. Were other animals in Sunnydale acting strange? A few phone calls could answer that. If all cats were acting strangely, it would be worth looking into. She wondered if she could prove her hunch. Those green eyes had watched her with the intensity of a being who knew and understood what was going on. He had enduring her careful poking and prodding, meowed when she asked him questions, and had seemed more intelligent than most cats. She wasn't a feline expert but years of living on the Hellmouth told her there was something off about the tabby.

Dawn was turning up the walk, schoolbooks in hand, as Willow pulled into the Summers' drive. Grabbing her purse, she waved to the girl and climbed out of the car. "Hey, Dawnie. Is Giles still here?"

"Yeah. He's supposed to conference call the Head Watcher this afternoon."

"Classes over?"

"Finally." Dawn grinned as she let them into the house. "And what is my favorite witch up to this fine California day?"

"Went over to Xander's on his lunch break and met the girl responsible for those five pounds I've gained eating all those donuts. Her name is Jane."

"Demon?"

"Far as I could tell, she's human." Willow dropped her handbag on the kitchen counter. "And I tried three different spells and two demon-sensitive crystals."

"What's she like?"

"Cute in a tomboy way. Short. Probably a size zero. A big wind would blow her away. Overall verdict, normal with higher than average intelligence. And I think she likes comic books."

"How so?"

"It might have been the X-Men t-shirt she was wearing. Or the Spider Man shoes."

Dawn laughed as she pulled the milk out of the fridge and poured herself a glass. "Sounds like we have a winner. At least they'll have something to talk about."

"Yeah." Willow found a glass for herself and filled it with water. "They seemed to be relaxed together. Joking, laughing. And I think she gets Xander's sense of humor."

"A rare quality indeed."

"For a non-Scooby? Much so." She glanced up as Buffy came through the doorway. "Home for lunch, Buff?"

"Yeah. How'd donut girl check out?"

"Free and clear." Calling Buffy had been the first thing Willow had done after getting Xander's request.

"Major relief. Sense any sparkage?"

"Definite meeting of brain waves at least. Those two might actually speak the same language."

"About those brain waves..." Buffy hesitated. "Giles wanted to pick your brain for a bit. Something about radio from the Hellmouth. Making demons a little wacky and who knows what else."

"Where is he?" Willow checked her watch. "I don't have to be back up on campus for another couple of hours."

"He might be on the phone for a while. Council stuff. They're trying to play nice this round."

"Anyone seen Faith?" Dawn blinked innocently at her sister. "Just wondering."

Buffy glared back. "You're way too happy about this."

"At least someone's having sex."

"Dawn. Thin ice, treading on it, you are."

Willow frowned in mock disapproval. "What's up? Who's getting sex? Cause I'd kinda like to join that whole train the next time it comes around."

Buffy's voice was muffled as she searched through the refrigerator for something to eat. "No, you don't. Faith. Spike. Do the math."

"Oh. Well." Willow grinned at Dawn's attempt to keep back her laughter. "Guess I walked right into that one. Although it does make a strange sort of sense." She caught Buffy scowling at her. "In a non-logical and potentially bad sort of way. "He doesn't have one of those, you know, clauses or anything, does he? Cause I'm fresh out of Orbs of Thesula."

"Dawn didn't bother to find out before she sent Faith into the lion's den." Buffy dumped some bagged salad onto a plate and stabbed at the lettuce with a fork. "Has anyone thought to ask him how he got a soul anyway?"

"You were too busy knocking him out and tying him up," Dawn answered pointedly.

"How was I supposed to know he wasn't crazy anymore?"

"It's called trust, Buffy. Try it on sometime. It itches a little at first but you get used to it."

"Trusting vampires leads to pain and heartache, Dawn."

"Just because you had a bad experience-"

"Bad?" Buffy's fork hit the plate with a clang. "Bad is being used and dumped by Parker. Bad is Riley leaving me. Bad does not begin to describe what happened with Angel or Spike. Not even close."

"Fine." Dawn looked down at the counter, knowing she'd crossed the line.

Willow decided it was time to find Giles. "I'll just be...somewhere that's not here. Waiting for Giles." She scooped her bag off of the counter and escaped with her glass of water. The living room was blissfully quiet. There were books stacked on the coffee table.

"Ah, research. I've missed you." Willow settled onto the couch, sifting through the volumes to get an idea of what Giles was looking for. Energy fields, dimensional rifts and boundaries, that sort of thing. Nothing looked promising for information about strange cats. Oh well, first things first. Humming softly, she picked up one of the books and scanned through the marked pages.

Giles came around the corner, another book in his hands. "Willow. I'm glad you're here."

"Here and research ready. I do have one quick question for the old Watcher." She smiled as he took a seat. "Old as in former, not old as in fossil. Because you're definitely not archeology old."

"Yes, thank you. I think."

"Any ideas about strange cat mojo?"

"Cat? As in feline? Large or small?"

"House variety. Cute little tabbies with green eyes." She tried to read the title of his book, frowning at the unfamiliar script.

"I don't remember anything in particular. Most spells or summonings deal with larger cats, lions or tigers. Except for the myth of them being a witch's familiar or bad luck, there isn't much outside of the standard Egyptian lore." He shook his head. "Of course, I do believe that you can find several hundred works that claim all cats are divine and several hundred more that believe they are the Devil's servants.. Until someone actually gets into a feline mind, I'm rather inclined to believe the latter. Why do you ask?"

"Potential Xander love interest has a cat who's acting kinda spooky." Willow put her book down and tried another.

"Demon?"

"The cat? Don't think so. No demon vibes."

"No, the girl."

"Oh, nope. I checked." She smiled, wondering if Xander would ever be able to date without them all asking if the girl was human. "She said her cat's been a little weird. With the creepy eye watching and listening to mystical things only cats can hear. And Giles, I think it understood what I was saying. The cat. I mean, it knew when I had asked him a question. At least he meowed in all the right places."

"Cats are thought to be sensitive to human emotions. It was probably just picking up signals from its owner."

"Maybe. I was going to check with the animal shelters and clinics, see if they've had a lot of weird pets coming in. Maybe it has something to do with what's making the demons jumpy."

"Good idea." Giles got that far away look that Willow had always associated with research. It meant that he was thinking about something a million miles from Sunnydale and would return when he had found the answer in the enormous database he had instead of a brain.

"What did you want to ask me about? Giles?"

"Yes, of course. It's about Dawn and the demons actually." There went the glasses. This was turning out to be better than Willow had hoped. Polishing of the glasses was usually accompanied by something very interested. And very bad. But she could be excited until he told her the bad part. "It has been theorized that centers of mystical energy, like the Hellmouth, have a signature frequency. Beyond the range of human sensation or even modern technology."

"Like mystical electromagnetic radiation?"

"Exactly. I'm wondering if it would be possible for that frequency to change. And it did, would it affect the demon populations? We know the Hellmouth draws them here."

"And if it were amped up, it might do more than just draw." Willow frowned thoughtfully. "Like music affects humans. Triggering endorphin responses, adrenaline. Bringing out aggressive tendencies or making you happy. Big on the mood shifting."

"Resulting in a much more volatile temperament."

"But the whole point of a fundamental frequency is that it's fundamental. It doesn't change. You'd have to change the properties of the object to change its frequency."

Giles nodded and held his book out to her. "What if the nature of the Hellmouth isn't changing? It's just being augmented by something else. Or something else has changed. Syncing up the frequencies of these mystical convergences somehow."

"You think they're resonating. Like finding a natural frequency for our dimension."

"Precisely."

Willow traced a finger over the map printed on the pages, little dots indicating supernatural hotspots. "Well, resonance does produce destructive amplitudes. It's what breaks the glass." He looked confused at her reference. "When an opera singer hits that really high note and the glass shatters. It's because that note is the natural frequency of the glass. It resonates. Goes boom." And there was the bad part. "You think all these places are like the Hellmouth and they're all resonating at the same frequency. That's bad. That's world-ending bad."

"I think it's a possibility."

"And Dawn?"

"Dawn is hearing whispers. No intelligible words. Not even a clear voice." Giles dug another book out of the stacks. "The reason we can't see the Key part of Dawn is that it vibrates on a dimensional frequency beyond our reality. She could be hearing the vibrations of these energy fields. Literally speaking, the voice of the Hellmouth."

"She's resonating too." Willow felt the color drain from her cheeks. "You don't think it will hurt Dawn will you?"

"As far as we can tell, it hasn't hurt anything. It's only exciting the demons."

"Maybe it hasn't actually reached the resonance frequency yet. Maybe it's still ramping up." She stared blankly down at her lap. "Do we have any books about this stuff?"

"Not many. I'm scheduled to speak with the Council in half an hour. I'll ask them if they have more resources available." He checked his watch. "I'm sure Dawn's fine, Willow."

"Is there anything you haven't looked through yet? I'm sure you've gotten everything out of the rest."

"Feel free to double check, Willow. I'm not going to pretend I have all the answers any longer. You're a grown woman now and an exceptional one at that."

Willow blushed at the compliment. "I'll get started on that research then." She grabbed the nearest book and buried her nose in the pages to hide her red face. Halfway through the first paragraph, inspiration struck and she stood up quickly. "Actually, I can do better than musty old books."

"You can?"

She hurried to the desk and searched through the spiral bound notebook where Buffy kept important phone numbers. There it was. She dialed quickly, twisting away from the phone cord as she listened to the ring tone. "I'll just be a second, Giles." Two. Three.

"Angel Investigations," a cheerful voice answered at the other end of the line.

"Hey. It's Willow Rosenberg in Sunnydale. I'm looking for Fred."

* * *

Clair Iverson had never wanted to be Head Watcher. He wanted to be a Watcher, to do his bit for mankind and retire quietly with a good book and his Welsh Corgi named Max. He did his job well and he enjoyed it, two things that had been the very cause of his new responsibilities. No one cared that he didn't want them. Rubbing his temples, he watched the phone and waited for it to produce the shrill ringing that had to be the most irritating sound in the history of mankind.

"Do you need anything, sir?" Roberts' head poked through the door.

"No, thank you. How is the clean up going?"

Roberts hesitated. "He took the hard drive, sir."

"Why am I not surprised?" Iverson leaned back in his chair. "Any word on his whereabouts?"

"Not a whisper."

"Keep me updated." He breathed a sigh of relief as the door finally closed and he was once again alone in his office. The strange happenings around the world were making him jumpy. A cat on a hot tin roof. It seemed to get a tad worse every day and they still had not heard from their Slayer. All in all, it had been a very bad week thus far and Iverson doubted that it had any intention of getting better.

He was shaken from his thoughts abruptly by the ringing of the phone. For a moment he stared blankly at the receiver. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the handset and pressed it against his ear. "Iverson."

"Rupert Giles in Sunnydale, sir."

"Rupert. How are things in California?"

"Very much the same as when I spoke to your assistant yesterday." The former Watcher's voice was noticeably terse even with the less than optimum connection.

"I understand. My deepest apologies to you and your Slayer for what happened. It was a dreadful mistake."

"What do you intend to do to prevent another such mistake?"

"I intend to involve Miss Summers completely in the business of the Council." Iverson glanced up as Roberts returned, silently placing a folder on his desk. "That is the very reason that I wished to speak with you." He flipped open the file and frowned at the newspaper clippings inside. Two families in southern Virginia had been brutally murdered in their own homes. Another in the south of France and a fourth in the Lake District. No, his week was most definitely not improving.

"Very well. What do you propose?"

"I will be flying out this evening for California. I don't wish to conduct this business over the phone and I would like to personally assure Miss Summers that both myself and the Council are squarely behind her."

"That would be appreciated." The older man sounded suspicious. Iverson could hardly blame him. The Council's record with Miss Summers was abysmal at best.

"Is there any way we can be of assistance to Miss Summers or to you, Rupert? I could get the paperwork started today and still meet my plane if there is anything pressing." Iverson tapped the desktop absently, scanning through the articles about the deaths. Something was familiar. The names. Larry and Karen O'Bannion, two daughters, Eliza and Miranda. Dr. and Mrs. Jacob Marshall, a son, Andrew, and three girls, Kate, Lily, and Sybil. The Moreau family in Nice. Six people lost in the Worthington family. All dead. Giles' voice interrupted his concentration.

"There is something. About Buffy's sister, Dawn."

"Yes?"

"You are aware of her circumstances?"

"Of course."

"Are there any records in the possession of the Council that might contain more information about her?"

"Most of our records were destroyed by the First." Iverson closed the folder. "But I will initiate a search before I leave this evening. If there is anything in our possession, it will be forwarded to you as soon as possible."

"Thank you. Sir."

"No trouble at all. This organization exists to benefit the Slayer or Slayers in whatever way we can. I will see you in Sunnydale tomorrow evening." He set the phone down with a click. "Roberts?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Are there more of these?" He indicated the folder of clippings.

"Not yet, sir."

"There will be. Damn." Iverson took another deep breath before standing up. "I want you to find, photocopy, pack, and ship every bit of information about the Key and dimensional matrices that we can find. Send out a search through every contact we have. I want it all in Sunnydale by the time I land at the airport tomorrow night."

"Yes, sir."

"And Roberts? Get the genealogists in here. If we can warn or protect some of these families." He shook his head sadly. "We need to know about as many of them as possible. And send out a request for information. Let's find out who or what is doing the killing." He watched Roberts scribble furiously on his notepad. "I'll take care of those last two, Roberts. Concentrate on getting that information to Mr. Giles."

"Yes, sir." Roberts disappeared before Iverson could change his mind.

* * *

New Orleans held its breath when its resident vampire mogul returned in a flourish. Kraqin stayed low, blending into the background as the Al Capone imitation strutted through the city he had abandoned like a kicked dog less than a week before. Rumors had taken hold and the word was out; William the Bloody Psycho had left the building. There was a price on the vampire's head that made Kraqin wince. Bounty hunters swooped down onto the demon community, bloodthirsty vultures searching for any scrap of a clue. Those weren't the only rumblings. As one of the species of balance demons, Kraqin could feel the shift of power around him. Something was changing.

From the gossip, Cable seemed to be in the know and jockeying for the position of right hand man. Kraqin didn't want to know whose right hand because it gave him the creeps and anyone Cable would align with was doomed to be bad news all around. The vampire might be a coward but he wasn't the short end of the stick. If there was a big evil setting up to move, Cable would be scrambling to make himself useful in the hopes of a reward.

Ice sloshed in his glass as another demon bumped against his arm, he scowled ineffectively at the creature's back and moved his drink protectively. No respect for other demons, that's what was wrong with this world. Everyone out for themselves without care or concern for anything but getting ahead of the next guy.

"...a bookstore on Bourbon. Someone saw Spike there a few days ago."

"Trail's cold by now."

Kraqin's ears perked up at the mention of the vampire's name. The two demons at the bar next to him must have been bounty hunters. They had the look; dollar signs instead of irises and more weaponry than they knew what to do with. He leaned sideways on his stool, trying to catch more of the conversation out the background noise. They were talking about knives now. In great detail. He sighed into his drink. All brawn, no brains. He waited until the hunters finished their drinks and lumbered through the crowd but they never returned to the subject of Spike.

Cursing his boundless and meddlesome curiosity, he finished off his own drink and headed out of the bar after the hulking blockheads. Tucking his hands into his pockets awkwardly, they just weren't meant for his triangular bone structure, he shuffled down the street behind them. It was late and the human traffic was minimal through the back roads and alleyways. He doubted he'd get a second look anyway. If they weren't drunk as sailors, they'd think he was wearing a mask. Bourbon Street was a taste of double shot insanity any time of day as people wandered in and out of the clubs, flirting with the shot girls, and joking with friends. He watched the bounty hunters stop outside the Full Moon Rising bookstore and glance between the sign and the darkened interior. They continued moving, looking slightly puzzled.

Weaving through the crowd, Kraqin stopped in front of the store and peered through the glass. There was a dim light in the back and the vague shapes of bookshelves formed out of the shadows. Frowning, he wondered why the overgrown weed-whackers hadn't simply broken down the door and ransacked the place. That was their usual modus operendi. Taking a step back, he looked up at the sign again. Back to the window. Back to the sign. Something was wonky. The letters blurred as you looked away. In fact, he couldn't remember what the sign had said just a second later. Sign. Window. Strange.

He moved past the store and found he couldn't remember what it looked like or if he'd even seen it. Was the bookstore on Bourbon anyway? He shook his head, clearing some of the cobwebs away. Bookstore. He turned away, focusing on the busy club across the street. What was he looking for again?

He grinned as he realized what was going on. It took a clever hand to fashion a confusion spell that worked on a Balance Demon. Chuckling, he started down the street with a lighter heart. Big Evil might be on its way and it might succeed in dragging the dimension into chaos, but nothing in this world ever went quietly into that dark night. Now was probably a good time to take that extended vacation to the Nether dimensions he'd been thinking about.

* * *

"Behind you!"

Two steps, push off with one powerful thrust, there was a thud as her boot hit the wall of the crypt. Faith twisted midair, bringing her other leg around in a swinging kick. Bones crunched as her foot connected with the vampire's face, snapping his neck. Feet hit the ground and she started breathing again. God, she loved this job. Smooth as butter, the stake pierced through the vamp's chest and she waved away the dust that exploded at her feet.

"Not bad." Buffy was panting a little. "Your strength is coming back."

"Thanks for the heads up." Faith twirled the stake like a Western cowboy movie and stuck it back in her jacket pocket. "See what you mean about things being a little wacky out here."

"Confidence is of the good." Faith kept her eyes open as they started back through the cemetery. She was hoping to run into the vampires from the bar the night before. In decent shoes and no blood delivery scheduled, she'd wipe the floor with their reject asses.

"You're all peppy and good moody tonight."

Faith grinned but didn't take the bait. "Good to be out, kicking demon ass." She still loved the charge, the rush of adrenaline that slaying brought. The trick was control. Don't go over the top, don't get lost in it. It was getting easier.

"Have a good time last night?" Not giving up, Buffy's voice was deliberately casual.

Faith looked at her sideways, trying to decide what exactly the fishing expedition was for. "Not bad. Relaxing." She'd fallen asleep next to Spike and had slept better than she had in months. No nightmares, no restlessness. Knowing she was safe. It had been mid afternoon when she'd finally crawled out of bed, forced another bag of blood down Spike's throat and headed back to return Dawn's clothing. Dinner at casa Summers, a little patrol, and she would head back to Spike's. It was good to be around someone who didn't give a fuck that she had been in prison or looked like a quilt.

"Good." Buffy was staring at her feet as they walked. "So, you and Spike are getting along?"

"Yeah. He's cool." It was still easier to keep things casual. Too much Slayer bonding usually led to bad things. Like breaking and entering, stealing weapons, resisting arrest, and the inevitable accidental staking of a human being. Which led to dumping the body in the bay where it was found anyway and shacking up with the evil Mayor determined to eat the graduating class. Eventually there was prison blue and a whole lot of steel bars. Not pretty.

"I was looking for a little more than that. Along the lines of soul status. Not really wanting any more surprises." Her voice took on a hard edge.

"B. I'm flattered," Faith laughed, she was in too good of a mood to let Buffy ruin it. "You really think that little ole me could give Spike his one moment of true happiness? That's gotta choke."

Buffy stopped and glared at her. "Just tell me if I have to stake him or not."

"Chill, B. His soul is safely in place."

"Guess you didn't get the job done then."

Faith froze, turning around slowly. "What did you say?"

"You heard me." Buffy's smile was cold. "You'd think with all the practice you've had, I mean, is there anyone in this hemisphere you haven't screwed?"

"You're jealous." Faith watched in awe as Buffy shook her head and started walking away. "You are! You're jealous. Of me. I can't believe this!" She leapt onto a tombstone ahead of Buffy, pivoting and grinning down at her. "You can't handle the fact that I have something you want."

Buffy shrugged, heading in the other direction. "And aren't you forgetting that I've already had him? Just another one of my cast-offs. Think about that for two seconds. If you can manage to pay attention that long."

Faith jumped down and jogged after her. "What's your problem, B? Are you this bitchy to everyone or do you reserve it special for me?"

"It's all for you. Aren't you lucky?"

"Luckiest girl in the world apparently."

"Get over it." Buffy paused to look her up and down appraisingly. "Screwing a vampire isn't exactly one of those things you brag about."

"Especially if you're little Miss Perfect who can't stand the competition." Faith edged closer, anger finally burning through her earlier good mood.

"You're not competition, Faith." Buffy advanced, fists clenched at her sides. "Every time you come here you take over my life. At least you try. But you can't cut it. You have no idea what it takes to live in this world."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You're the one jumping on my back here."

"Was it worth it, Faith?" she taunted. "You always wanted to know what it was like. How do you like being some vampire's whore?"

"Stop," Faith hissed through clenched teeth, trying to fight back rage and hurt. A little voice whined that she deserved it. Deserved whatever Buffy dished out because she had done things. Terrible things. This was her punishment.

"What? Can't take the truth?"

"Nothing happened. We didn't." Faith shook her head slowly.

"Really?" Buffy laughed. "I'm sorry if I find that hard to believe. You're not exactly known for your restraint. Remember? Want. Take. Have. And I'm sure he didn't even put up a fight. At least he has an excuse. He's a vampire. Just an animal looking for a good lay."

"Just stop."

"And could you have picked a more pathetic vampire?" Buffy crossed her arms, eyes glittering with anger. "Did he tell you all about how I broke his poor little heart? About how he followed me around? Or the robot? How about trying to rape me? Did he mention any of that before he tried you on for size?"

"Stop."

"Oh, I know. Did he cry about all the people he's killed and how sorry he is? You should really see him cry, it's hilarious."

Faith snapped. She felt something break inside her, images flashing through her mind of Spike as he carried her away from the warehouse or sleeping beside her. His voice whispering to her, arms around her, keeping her safe. Her fist connected with Buffy's jaw, sending her tumbling backward onto the grass. Lunging after her, she grabbed hold of Buffy's jacket and yanked her roughly to her feet. Blood pounded furiously in her head as she blocked a punch and shoved Buffy away, watching her crash into a headstone. "You don't get to talk about him like that. Ever."

"Why? Because you're fucking him?" Buffy got to her feet and circled warily, coiled and ready for a fight.

"Because you don't deserve him. You never did." It was suddenly crystal clear in Faith's mind. "He's not your cast-off. You're his."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're beneath him." Faith walked away.

* * *

Buffy beat up a few more demons, venting rage she didn't understand until she was breathing hard and no less confused. Blinking into the shadows, she realized that she was in Spike's old crypt. It still smelled of ash. Feeling her way around the bottom level, she found the candles Dawn had left. Her sister thought that Buffy didn't know about it; the Spike shrine. Her foot brushed against something that rattled and she reached down for the box, sifting through the contents for the lighter. A thin flame sputtered and she started on the candles. They cast dancing shadows over the blackened interior.

She hated it here. Hated it enough that she'd come down and torn everything out, leaving only dirt and cement behind. She couldn't stand the reminders. The burnt shreds of carpet. The bed. They drove her mad. Reminding her of him.

Now there was nothing but soot and ash and the box Dawn thought was a secret. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the pictures out, sinking to the ground and holding her knees tightly against her chest. He was there. Sleek and beautiful in black leather. She'd kept the jacket, but it no longer smelled of cigarettes, alcohol, and Spike. She touched the photograph lightly, the black eye that she had given him because he had been trying to help her. Trying to save her. Something tickled her cheek, reaching up she was surprised to find her fingertips wet. Tears. Another tear slipped out, chipping away at the wall around her. The wall that kept her safe, kept the pain out. Kept her in control. Vision blurred and she brushed the tears away angrily. She wasn't going to cry. The tears didn't listen.

"Stupid tears," she hiccupped into the silence, shoving the picture back into the box only to pull it out again a second later. "Stupid vampire." She hated him for what he'd done. Hated him for what they had been, for loving her, for taking care of Dawn. She hated the way he was always so right about everything. Hated that she hadn't wanted to kill him, had hoped that he would come back.

Tears turned to sobs and she buried her face in her arms. For four long years she had waited for him to come back, wanted him to come back, believing that he was still pissing people off somewhere and that he still loved her. That he would always love her. Somehow that made the fact that she was alone easier to face. She hated him for leaving her. Like her father, like Angel, like Riley.

"St-stupid m-me," she stammered, wiping her eyes on the sleeves of her jacket. Her life was a wreck, she was a wreck. She'd wasted four years of her life hoping that she hadn't really driven him away. Trying to push away the guilt of beating him, leaving him in the alley behind the police station. Trying to block out the pain of the loss of him. Pretend she didn't care, that she was glad he was gone; pretend she didn't love him, she had never loved him. But here she was, huddled in the crypt that had witnessed more than earth should see and she could tell herself that it didn't matter, that he was a vampire and she didn't need to feel guilty. He was evil. He deserved what she had inflicted on him. Soulless vampires didn't deserve to be treated like human beings, didn't merit respect or basic consideration.

They were lies. Comfortable, safe lies that she had told herself to keep the pain away. Her life was one long string of lies.

She was no better than Spike. Maybe she was something worse. There was blood on her hands just the same. Ethan's face haunted her dreams, sightless eyes staring out from beneath a single bullet hole until brown changed to blue and it was Spike pinned to the stairway. This was what murder tasted like. Bitter, acrid. Coating her mouth and gagging her when she tried to breathe.

Was she even a good person? What had she done that was good? There were dead demons; there were apocalypses that weren't. But when had she asked Willow about her work or her thesis? When had she last taken Xander out for coffee or spent real quality time with Dawn? Not the scheduled outings she prearranged and penned into her day planner. Had she actually cared for anyone? What had she done that made her a good person? Someone worth loving, someone who could be loved. Her friends were loyal. Were they blind? What did they see when they looked at her? A Slayer. When had she done something human?

She sniffed and smoothed the bent edge of the picture. That birthday would be forever stained by the memory of her fists and Spike's face. Thinking she had killed Katrina had devastated her but it had also been a release. Knowing that the life she was living would end as soon as she turned herself in and faced the music. That all the other decisions would no longer have to be made. She wouldn't have to worry about money or Spike or Dawn. Just getting through each day in a cell that couldn't possibly be as bad as the prison inside her mind. She'd felt genuine relief when she realized that it could have and probably had been Warren, but a part of her wondered if things would have been better for everyone if she'd gone to jail. Tara would probably still be alive. Willow wouldn't have tried to destroy the world. Dawn would be with their father. Granted he wasn't the most ideal parental figure and he'd never really known Dawn but she wouldn't have had to worry about vampires and demons anymore. Now that she deserved the sentence, she was too afraid to take it.

Killing Ethan had been easy. Too easy. Remembering all the times he had tried to hurt them and nearly gotten them killed. What he had done to Faith, trying to turn them against Spike. That had sealed his fate in Buffy's mind. She had broken every rule she'd ever made and taken human justice into her own hands. Except it hadn't been justice any longer, just vengeance. With a sad smile, she wished Anya were around to point out the obvious. So much death. Death was her art.

Staring into the flickering shadows bleakly, she tried to remember the feeling of peace she'd had when she had crawled out of the earth with Dawn after Willow's rampage. It hadn't lasted. She'd gotten over the trauma of being ripped out of heaven but she'd come back with the same flaws that had always been there. She was still broken; had been broken long before Willow's resurrection spell. She wasn't perfect, she wasn't even good enough. She had become Faith and, ironically, Faith had become her. Now she was the one spiraling out of control and Faith was getting it together.

Empty. Empty and broken. Lashing out at Faith because she was jealous. Of Faith's calm, her control, the new confidence in her voice and the easy smile that Buffy had never seen before. Maybe it took being murdered, brought back, and being tortured to finally bring closure to Faith's violent past. What would it take for her? Did she have to lose everything to realize what she had?

Closing her eyes, she curled up on the stone floor, breathing in the dust and ash that coated everything. Might as well coat her lungs too. She'd put it there. It was her fault, her responsibility, her shame. Who could she ask for help? Was she even worth helping now? She was the strength. The rock. She couldn't show weakness, couldn't let anyone know that she was lost and scared inside, that she didn't know where her life was going or what she was doing. The Slayer had to be in control. Always in control. It was all just a charade. She'd fooled them all.

"World's best actor," she whispered mirthlessly into the silence, blinking away fresh tears.

* * *

If I could wake up every afternoon with a beautiful woman next to me, I'd be the happiest man on Earth. Or vampire, if you're a stickler for details. Lying there on the bed, watching the rise and fall of Faith's back, I wished to be a man. Wished that I could watch her sleep as the first light of dawn came through the window and turned her skin gold and coral. Bring on the white picket fences and everything else I'll never have. She brings out every protective impulse in me, the ripping throats out of anyone who looks at her the wrong way type of instincts. She's gone when I wake the second time. It's dark now and the bed is empty.

Horrendous pain has finally subsided, leaving me stiff and weary like jetlag from Hell. Strangely enough I'm restless. Memories of a past long gone rise up as unbidden phantoms from the dusty corners of my mind. Haven't thought about those first moments, crawling out of my grave into a whole new world of blood and violence, for some time. How far I had fallen, how far I have continued to fall. After all, a vampire lying next to a Slayer without wanting to drain her dry is as sick, as wrong, as the creature I was when I rose that night. Maybe I'm brooding. Just a tad. If I thought about it long enough, it'd probably depress me. I've had enough of depression.

Had enough of it when those sodding Solider Boys shoved that chip up my brain and left me to die. Can't imagine any other reason for it; chip the vampire and wait for someone with half a brain to figure out which end of the stake to use. Better yet, hope the Slayer finds him and laughs her fool ass off. Enough spending a year chasing Buffy like a pathetic dog panting for affection. More when I finally caught her and she ripped my unbeating heart out for my effort. Depression. Dark, angry, bitter. The taste still coats my throat. All for love.

Everything I've ever done, ever been. For love. Love's bitch. Love's whore. Used to think I'd never be anything without love, never be able to breathe or survive without the heady rush of passion. But it's been more than four years and I haven't even tried. Wonder what Dru's up to these days. Crazy bitch is probably still trying to get her precious poof of a sire back into the fold. She ought to do what he did to her, kill everyone he loves, drive him fucking mad. A twinge of sympathy for Angel aside, it would be a rather poetic ending. I shouldn't be entertaining such thoughts, shiny new soul and all. Except my soul isn't new or shiny. Not like it was when Dru found me.

I smile at the thought of the bint sending Angel down that damning spiral if I bloody well feel like it. Course, part of me, the really annoying part that can be a right prat sometimes, knows that I'd stop her if I could. That's a sickening thought and I push it away. Not a chance in hell I'd save that bastard's ass. Joining the souled vampire club doesn't mean I stopped hating him.

_Congratulations. Looks like you're finally one of us._

Even with the gypsy curse like a noose around his demon's neck he'd looked at me like something unworthy. Although that was probably because he was horrified with what he had done, what he had made when he turned Drusilla. Because she was his and I was hers. Which in his addled brain probably made him responsible for all of my kills as well.

The past all comes down to love. Who has it, who doesn't. Memories of William, the Bloody Awful Poet, scratching out verses so Cecily could transform them into mocking daggers to impale himself on. Sweet, naive William seeing the world through rose colored glasses and thinking that if one merely believed in virtue and goodness, it made the darkness disappear. He was ruled by love, killed by its fickle promises, and ironically returned to this body by the same vain hope that had driven him to write the bloody trash in the first place. There are times I hear myself thinking like him, using William's stilted prose and poncy language. I've given up trying to squash it. Can't cut it out of me anymore than I can cut out the soul.

I'm not sure I believe in love now. After all I've seen, felt, been through. Not the way I used to. Maybe Buffy was right. Demons can't love. And the soul? William wouldn't know love if it found him crying in an alley and bit his goddamn throat.

Enough brooding. If I don't get out of bed soon I'll be unable to resist the urge to stock up on nancy-boy hair gel. Wincing against protesting muscles, I reel my thoughts back into the present and the world around me. Gingerly testing my ribs, I'm satisfied that they're healing quickly. My chest is covered with bruises and there are scratches from the breaking window on my arms and shoulders. I remember thinking my ribs were broken. I hadn't been focused on anything but finding Faith. Still didn't explain why my injuries had decided to reappear days later, excruciatingly fresh and bringing a bitch of a hangover with them. Come to think of it, the blinding urge to kill things has faded. Should probably mention all this to the Watcher. Eventually.

It's easier once I'm up and moving, working some of the stiffness from my joints. There's a pile of mail next to a brown cardboard box on the kitchen counter. Must be the package Crazy Judy was talking about. It's the size of a medium television and I smile when I recognize the logo for the _Full Moon Rising_ bookstore printed on the side. Ripping through the packing tape, I fold the flaps back to reveal my laptop nestled safely in a pile of clothing. A note is taped to the top of the case:

_Stay in Sunnydale. New Orleans not safe. Sent a few of your things and some for Faith. _

Considering the dusty crusade I waged on the undead population of southern Louisiana, I'm not surprised at the warning. At the very least, Cable would be out for more than just blood. Hauling the box into the bedroom, I hook the computer up, listening to the familiar chirping as it boots. The clothes obviously meant for Faith, I fold neatly and place on one of the empty shelves in the closet. Maybe I'll take them over later. Need to check on Dawn and have that confrontation with Buffy. She's been waiting four years for an apology and even if I'm not sure I have one to give her, she deserves to know about the soul. Black clothes go into the box and straight to the back of the closet.

One of the strings attached to being a part of this world is that you have to play along. Sign on the dotted line, fill out the sodding paperwork, and put in your two cents. William Davis has mail to open and emails to send, explaining where he's been and why. It's not hard. Haven't been around this long without learning the fine art of bullshit. Despite my irritation at the frivolity, the hum of the laptop is comforting and I enjoy the feel of the keys beneath my fingers. It grounds me, reminds me that there is a world beyond the night of creepy crawlies. There's a chance of something resembling a normal human life for this vampire with a soul. Can't say much for Peaches but I don't remember him ever really embracing the madding crowd. With the exception of the pre-Angel days, in which he ate quite a few of them.

Essential damage control taken care of, I head into the shower and hope the pounding of hot water will ease away some of the inflexibility in my limbs. Life is never dull. It feels anticlimactic after the last few weeks. Big Bad turned out to be just a man. Sick bastard but still just a man. Virtuous Buffy had sent him off to jail like the hero she was instead of killing him. She didn't have it in her to kill someone in cold blood. It was one of the things that had drawn me to her, the dedication to right and wrong. Even if I had been the embodiment of wrong at the time, it was still admirable. Admirable? Bloody hell. Sod William and his gentile vocabulary. Catch myself saying effulgent and I will find a way to get him out of my head.

The scent of magnolias catches my nose as I dry off. Wrapping the towel around my waist tightly, I run a quick hand through my hair before leaving the bathroom. She's sitting on the bed in the clothes I found for her in New Orleans and a denim jacket smelling faintly of lavender. Boots tap against the carpet nervously and her cheeks are flushed.

"You alright, Slayer?" I'm surprised when she doesn't respond, glancing back at her as I grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. "Verek sent some stuff for you. Shirts, couple pairs of jeans." Still no answer. "Faith? When she finally moves, it's to shrug away the denim jacket and toss it onto the table at the end of the bed. After dressing carefully in denim and soft cotton t-shirt, still rusty and grimacing at the complaining muscles, I drape the damp towel over the doorknob and sit down beside her. "Somethin' happen, luv?"

She shrugs, looking down at her hands. "I hit Buffy."

I'll have to tread cautiously with this one. "She deserve it?"

"No." She shakes her head but the corner of her mouth curls into a partial smile. "Maybe."

"She means well, pet. But she can be an amazing bitch when she puts her mind to it." One arm around her shoulders, I give her a friendly hug. "She hit you back?"

"She tried."

"Kicked her high and mighty ass?"

"Just a little." She's really smiling now as she looks up at me.

"Looks good on you." My fingertips brush over her bottom lip softly. "You should do it more often." She takes my hand, warming my skin with hers, leaning almost imperceptibly into my touch. Dark eyelashes at half-mast and just a hint of teeth as she bites at her lower lip, not quite looking at me and not quite looking away. Nervous. Vulnerable. If I were human, my heart would be a jackhammer inside my chest, cheeks burning with the racing blood in my veins. I can almost remember the way it felt. Can almost feel it.

The way I can feel the heat beneath her skin as it colors her face and hear her heart beating rapidly. Tracing the line of her jaw, I let my fingers drop to her throat, pressing against the pulse underneath. Warm fingertips slip down my forearm, barely making contact. Entranced, I follow the line of her neck to the hollow at the base and along the delicate arch of her collarbone, pushing back the soft cotton material of her t-shirt to slip my fingers underneath and curve over her shoulder. Her eyes are closed now, full lips a breath apart as I move my hand along her spine, massaging the tense muscles of her neck. Letting my other hand glide down her side, searching out the tight muscles of her lower back and working them out with easy circles. Just helping her relax. That's all this is. Helping her relax.

I can feel her breath against my lips; short, quick, hot. So close. Just a whisper away from mine, drawing me closer like a siren. A whirlpool dragging me under. Irresistible. The rhythm of my hands has turned unmistakably carnal. Can't do this. Can't not do this. It's wrong. It has to be wrong. Vampire, Slayer. Worlds of wrong. Too far gone. I passed right and wrong three miles back.

"Open your eyes," my voice is husky. I need to see her. Need to know. Dark eyes flutter open. She's as lost as I am. And she's terrified. The right thing to do would be to back away, let go of her and just get as far away as possible. Right thing. My brain isn't functioning. There isn't a single doubt in my mind that if I do this, there will be no going back and she'll turn my life upside down. It's going to hurt. It's going to burn. And God, I want it. "This isn't just tonight, Faith. I won't ever be just tonight."

She blinks, uncertainty playing across her face. I can feel her trembling against me. "I don't...I can't." Her voice breaks and she tries to look away. "I don't know if I can do that. This. I've never," she stops, eyes beginning to shine with tears.

"Not asking for eternity, luv." Caressing her cheek affectionately, I catch her eyes again and watch the turmoil unfold inside her. "Just be here. All of you. With me."

"Just Faith." She smiles, lost in a memory somewhere I can't reach.

"Just Faith."

"I can do that."

It's all the answer I need. I'm dizzy with the effort of holding back in the length of the single heartbeat that it takes for me close the distance and feel her lips burn into mine. She's spiced honey and wine in my mouth. Our first kiss was tender and comforting. This is hunger and passion. There's no way one night will be enough. I can't get enough of her taste, her heat. We're wrapped around each other, pulling, fighting to be closer, to get more. I'm on my back, her legs pressing tightly at my sides, her lips on my skin as she struggles with my t-shirt. Twisting beneath her, I flip her onto the mattress, yanking the blue cotton over her head and pushing myself up to take in the sight of her bare breasts.

"You like?" She smiles up at me lasciviously, bucking her hips against mine.

"You have no idea." Still incredulous that she's actually lying beneath me, warm and wanting, I'm afraid to touch her. She pulls me roughly down into a kiss, linking her legs around my waist and throwing me easily onto my back. A few of my ribs protest and I wince at the sudden jabs of pain.

"Sorry." She shifts her weight to her knees and looks down at me apologetically.

"They'll heal." My hands move of their own accord, caressing, sliding, burning across her skin. Suddenly desperate to know every curve, every dimple, every bit of her body. Memorize every contour, the way her muscles contract, moving under my touch. The line of her breasts, shadowing the ribs beneath them, firm in my hands as I study her, worshipping her.

"We could wait." Her voice is breathless and she's still grinding against me.

I shake my head quickly. I'm at the limits of my control already and there's not a bloody thing in this world that could convince me to let her go now. "Switch." She hesitates for a moment before lying down again. Probably used to be on top. More her style. "Trust me." She smiles a little self-consciously as I settle my weight on top of her, taking time to kiss and nip at her neck and shoulders. Moaning, she strains against me impatiently, fingers curling tightly in my hair.

"What are you," words catch in her throat as my tongue rasps against a taut nipple. "Waiting for?"

"Called foreplay, luv."

"Fuck it." She's writhing, clutching at my shoulders, nails digging into my skin. "Just...Spike...God...oh God."

We're back to rolling and clawing at each other, mindlessly stripping away the remaining clothes. I'm surprised when she returns to her back, pulling me with her and lifting her hips to meet me. Sinking into her is falling into the sun. Part of me wonders if I'm going to burn to ash just from being inside her. So different. Hard and soft, cold and hot; fitting together perfectly. I'm drowning in her. Her voice is spilling nonsensical words in my ears. I can't hear them over the racing of her blood. Fangs cut into my lip, I turn my face away from her neck and the pulse I can feel through the skin. It's been so long since I've tasted human blood, Slayer blood. I can feel the growl resonating inside my chest at the thought of drinking from her. The more I get, the more I want. The taste of her skin, salty with exertion. Slick heat engulfing me, driving me until there's nothing left in my shattered mind but the sensation and the sound of her heart. Finding a rhythm, finding what quickens her pulse. Learning the subtleties of her body as she coaxes and teaches me, demanding satisfaction.

Muscles clench around me, she's gripping my arms painfully, leaving bruises on my pale skin, and screaming my name. My name. I'm burning up from the inside out. Shaking violently and roaring my own release, I collapse, spent and burnt to the core, onto her searing body. Cradling her tightly, I roll onto my back, pulling her with me. For a long time there is only the sound of her breathing and a single heartbeat. I can feel the marks of the whip as I stroke her back gently. I'm still spinning. I may never stop.

"This is the part where I leave," she whispers, one finger tracing patterns on my chest.

"Stay."

"Say it again."

"Stay." I can feel her smile against my skin.


	19. Dissemination

**Dissemination**

Evil had a sense of humor. And a Rolex. But He didn't like to brag. What he did fancy was the sixteen-car pile-up on the expressway caused by a red-faced and short fused real estate agent with a cell phone glued to his ear who had cut off a soccer mom driving a minivan. She swerved into a pickup truck, swiping the back end and sending it tumbling down the asphalt. There was blood, broken glass, twisted metal, and best of all; a third of the Middlebrook Raptors junior soccer team had met a rather gruesome end.

It made His day.

Finding enjoyment in one's existence was always important, especially if one only saw the filthiest dregs of human nature day in and day out for the incomprehensible stretch of eternity. Mankind never ceased to amaze Him with their seemingly infinite creativity for pain and suffering. Civilizations rose and fell; time and space gave birth to new worlds and swallowed others into darkness; nothing was certain but change. And Him. Permanent job security.

The others merely existed, watching and following the courses laid out for them. Chronos drank his martinis; Alatheia built those bizarre little castles that always ended up looking like melting birthday cakes; Gaia spent endless days communing with the forest creatures. Did squirrels really have that much to say? Perhaps it just took them a long time to say it. Thanatos, the scythe bearing workaholic who hadn't taken a day off in the very long history of the universe, was worse company than a roomful of nuns. A statement that Good would find offensive, since the prancing, halo-toting incarnation of peace and light actually found their incessant chattering pleasant. Good was a perfect example of no sense of humor. And Evil could not abide the nattering of the Fates, answering in riddles and finishing each others' sentences until they drove Him mad in digital surround sound. The only Incarnation he could abide was War, whichever name he was using this epoch.

Evil had a hundred names, a thousand names. Mesphistopheles, Azazel, Lucifer, Ereshkigal, Set, Xipetotec. They were endless. At last count, He had more monikers than Good had managed to accumulate through the years. It wasn't hard when people tended to get hung up on the easy to remember but altogether lacking in originality - God. Such a pity. Naming them at all was quite ridiculous. Granted, it did make things easier at reunions by cutting down on finger pointing and using lengthy titles such as Incarnation of All Evil. And no one really minded being worshipped by the odd sect here and there even if they were beyond human comprehension. Tiny minds, weak and pathetic people praying to strange and vengeful gods when there was really nothing but time, space, and the Incarnations. Who didn't listen and didn't care about one small planet spinning silently through the void.

Sighing into His hazelnut latte and flipping open the _New York Times_, He scanned the headlines for juicy tidbits of chaos and destruction. Drug busts, murders, rumors of war looming on the horizon, terrorists. What a wonderful world this was. His soft laughter caught the attention of some of the other patrons in the glitzy cafe. They saw an expensive Italian suit and leather shoes. A lawyer, an investment broker, whatever they wanted to see. He made every effort to be accommodating.

The joy of being the Incarnation of All Evil was that He was, inherently and by definition, evil. Incarnations were forbidden to interfere with the affairs of men. It had consequences of cosmic and universal proportions. Of course, evil was never expected to play by the rules. Funny things, rules and regulations, they only stopped those willing to uphold them. He wasn't and He didn't have to be.

A plane crash in Africa was calling him. Shot down by militant revolutionaries. Ares would already be there, screeching and calling for blood. Perhaps He could interest War in a quick game of murder and mayhem. A truly magnificent world. And such a glorious destruction He had planned for it.

* * *

"I should be back in a few days. Sooner if you need me. You really don't need me. Except to answer phones and do research. But you have Wesley to do that and he's usually faster than I am anyway." Winifred Burkle frowned at the stack of books she was trying to fit into the banker's box. She really wanted to take all of them.

"Fred. We'll be fine." Angel smiled as she pushed her hair out of her eyes and began rearranging the books for the seventh time, trying to find a better fit.

"I just feel bad, you know. Leaving now with everything up in the air like it is." She glanced up, making sure she wasn't saying anything offensive.

"They need you more than we do right now," he reassured her.

"It is exciting." She couldn't keep the enthusiasm out of her voice. "And I've been working on a way to predict and maybe record mystical energy. Wesley even suggested going to the Hellmouth to study it a few months ago. I just didn't." She sighed. "They will come back. You're their Champion. They have to come back."

"Don't worry about it, Fred." Angel took the last book out of her hand and set on top of the box. Picking it up easily, he started toward the door of the library. Angel Investigations had left the Hyperion Hotel three years earlier, too many bad memories haunted the old hotel. After a few false starts, they found an old warehouse that had been converted into offices. There was room for a large training area; Gunn and Wesley had knocked out a couple of the walls to build a library for research. They dug sewer access for Angel and added a covered parking area. Some of the extra rooms were used as cozy guest rooms if research stretched into the night or a client needed a safe place to stay.

Fred followed him, picking up her suitcase on the way. "If you guys need any of the books."

"We'll be fine."

Charles Gunn waved from the bottom level, watching them coming down the stairs and taking Fred's suitcase when she reached the ground. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be. Thanks, Charles." Fred smiled a little nervously. "Feels strange to be going to Sunnydale without you guys. I don't even know anyone. Except Willow and I haven't seen her since the whole Angelus fiasco." She paused at the door, watching the two men load her things into the back of the small car. "I just hope I can help them. I'm not really up on my dimensional matrices and I never got back to that paper about space-time. I mean, even though I know it's possible, I still haven't done the math."

"Just be careful." Gunn opened the door for her.

"It can't be worse than L.A., Charles." She grinned up at him as she pulled the seatbelt over her shoulder and put the car into gear. "Tell Gwen I have the new adapter for her when she gets back from China. I'll have her rewired in no time."

"Thanks, Fred."

Gunn and Angel waited until the car disappeared before turning silently back to the building. Without Fred's comforting chatter, the only sounds were the quiet strains of Lorne's Spanish guitar music and the occasional creak of the old warehouse. Even the phones were quiet. Demon activity had been low for a couple of days. They made their way back to the main office to catch up on paperwork or just relax until someone needed their help.

"Did Fred go already?" Cordelia looked up from her desk beside the window and the stack of invoices she was working on. Her dark hair was long again, tied back from her face in the severe, no-nonsense ponytail that still seemed out of place on the once gregarious cheerleader. There was nothing cheerful about her now. There hadn't been since they had left the Hyperion.

"Yeah." Gunn settled onto the couch across the office, looking between the vampire and Cordelia. "Maybe all this weird vibrating is what's cutting off the visions. Like some sort of evil static."

"Maybe." She turned back her work.

"Cordy." Angel took a step toward her.

"No." Her voice was sharp. She hadn't let anyone get close to her in years, staying locked in self-imposed isolation. "The Powers will send you someone else. They won't abandon you."

"It's not like that."

"I'm not your link anymore, Angel." She shook her head bitterly. "I'm surprise they didn't do this years ago."

"We don't know why this is happening."

"Yes, we do." Tearful brown eyes blinked as she stood up. "Don't do this, Angel. Don't pretend everything's the way it was. I'll answer the phones, I'll file, I'll do the accounting. Just don't ask anything more from me. Please."

"I could contact them. Ask them why."

"How? The Oracles are dead, remember?" Cordelia moved away from the desk and turned to the window, staring out into the city. She was also bathed in light from the late afternoon sun, effectively keeping Angel from getting closer. "Let it go."

"There might be another explanation. Like Gunn said."

Her voice was flat, eyes staring blankly through the glass. "Connor is gone because of me."

Angel didn't have anything else to say.

* * *

"The answer is still no." Buffy hefted the last FedEx box through the doorway and into the living room, adding it to the other boxes on the dining table. "Faith doesn't want them to know she's still alive. I told her to take patrol tonight and stay with Spike." She looked around the room with a little bit of frustration. "Which she was probably going to do anyway."

"The Council has every right to know that they have three active Slayers." Giles slit open another box and began pulling out books and folders, glancing occasionally through some of the pages. "If their offer of help is genuine, and I believe that Iverson will be true to his word, then we should be upfront with him as well."

"Still no."

"You're not being reasonable about this."

"What do you want me to say, Giles? That Faith is alive. And by the way, she's now sleeping with the vampire who killed her." Buffy shook her head. "We both know what the Council thinks of that."

"She has a point, Giles." Willow looked up from her box.

"It's also possible that Spike could help us. You said that he could hear this voice Dawn's been hearing."

"Even better. Bring the vampire the Council sent to kill us all."

"Iverson assures me that it was Elliot's private vendetta against you. They believed Spike would be killed here in Sunnydale." Giles gave Buffy a pointed look, not having to voice the question of why she hadn't kill him aloud.

"Why are you taking their side anyway? The blew up your car."

"Buffy."

"Never mind." Buffy began stacking books, moving them to the coffee table. "I'll play nice. Because they've sent us all this stuff and if it helps Dawn then it will be worth it. But I'm not going to involve Faith or Spike. The sooner they get out of Sunnydale, the better."

"Do you condone their relationship?"

"What am I supposed to do about it? Ground them? Send them to their rooms?" Buffy curled up into her favorite chair and began sifting through one of the files. "If they're happy, more power to them."

"Happy?" Giles was stopped by a look from Willow.

"Remember happy, Giles? That feeling you get when you're not trying to avoid another apocalypse and there aren't demons or gods or Hellmouths out there messing with your sister's head. Hugs and puppies. Or a Christmas without the First Evil. How about a Halloween where the vampires actually stay in like the good little blood sucking fiends they're not."

"We'll find something." Willow loaded Giles up with books and pushed him toward the sofa. "Xander will be back with Mr. Iverson and Fred called from the turn off about twenty minutes ago. This whole mysterious frequency shifty thing doesn't stand a chance will all the super brainpower we're going to have. Dawn will be fine."

"Faith and Spike could possibly contribute." Giles eased his stack of books onto the coffee table, balancing them carefully. "I can hardly believe that none of you have even seen Spike since the basement. Have you even tried?"

"Giles." Buffy stared at him levelly. "What part of Faith and Spike are having sex did you not understand? Maybe that's how some people get their kicks but I don't wanna see it. Besides, if Spike had something important to tell us, he would have been over here by now."

"You're sure about that?"

"If it's about Dawn, yes. He would never hurt Dawn." Buffy turned back the folders in her lap.

"Buffy."

"Drop it."

"I don't-"

"Drop."

"You need to be-"

"Drop."

"Very well." Giles took off his glasses and began to polish them studiously.

"Stuffy British guy alert." Dawn breezed down the stairway and pulled the front door open, startling the man on the porch as he raised his hand to knock. Clair Iverson was in his mid forties, tall and slender with a mop of unruly sandy blond hair and brown eyes; dressed in slacks and a wrinkled oxford shirt that had probably been neatly pressed when he left England. A worn leather case was slung over his shoulder.

"One Watcher delivered right to your door. Now that's service." Xander moved past the Englishman. "I've offered him the spare closet at my place since things are getting pretty full around here."

"Thanks, Xan." Buffy uncurled and got up to greet the new Head Watcher. He had a friendly smile. Much more approachable than Quentin Travers. "I'm Buffy."

"Miss Summers. Pleased to meet you. Clair Iverson." He shook her hand firmly. "Rupert. I didn't realize that you were injured. Mr. Harris tells me it was an explosion?"

"Car bomb. I believe Elliot tried to kill me."

"Oh." Iverson seemed surprised and a little uncomfortable. "We are very sorry about what happened with Samuel. I'm afraid none of us realized how far he had gone."

"Not to sound pushy." Buffy returned to her chair. "But what can you tell us about Dawn."

"I'm Dawn." Dawn waved as she took a seat on the couch.

"You're the Key?" Iverson stared at her for a moment.

"Pretty lifelike, huh?"

"I'm sorry." He smiled and took the chair Willow offered gratefully. "I've spent too much time in an office or the library. Sometimes I forget the shock of seeing the real thing. It's quite amazing actually that the monks managed to create something so flawless out of their limited resources." He glanced at Dawn. "And quite lovely." Dawn blushed crimson and picked up a book to hide behind.

"Wouldn't try anything. If you like your kneecaps." Xander settled in next to Dawn.

"Oh, I didn't mean," Iverson stammered.

"Xander's joking. Although not about the kneecaps actually," Buffy interrupted. She waved to the boxes on the table. "I'm assuming you sent us all of this stuff."

"Yes. Everything we have or can find about the Key. There will be more arriving tomorrow." Iverson switched to business mode. "As well as our resources pertaining to the Hellmouth and dimensional structure."

"So you know?" Buffy frowned. "About Dawn tuning into radio Hellmouth?"

"It's like an evil lojack in my brain." Dawn smiled faintly.

"What?"

"We believe," Giles began, clearing a place to sit. "That Dawn is picking up the energy signals from the Hellmouth much like a radio receiver would. She's been hearing whispers for several days now. And we have reason to believe that demons can hear them as well. At least vampires." He bit his tongue to keep from saying more.

"I see." Iverson watched Dawn for a moment. "I can't say I'm surprised. The Key has the power to bring down the dimensional walls. It should have been obvious that it would be sensitive to the same influences."

"We've got the dimensional wall expert coming." Willow finished unloaded the last box and stacked it in the corner. "A physicist. She's been working on the whole space-time, mystical portal theory for the last few years. Spent some time in Pylea."

"Pylea? The Deathwok dimenson?" Iverson gave Willow a puzzled look.

"That's the one."

Xander raised a hand. "Is that like an Ewok?"

"Green with red horns, Xander...not cute and furry." Willow rolled her eyes, dragging another chair next to Buffy and starting into a stack of books.

"Fascinating. We really should require all Watchers to spend time here." Iverson was smiling. "Should we get started then? I'm rather afraid that as soon as the jetlag hits me, I won't be of much use to you."

"Fire away." Buffy eyed him warily as he opened the leather bag at his side and pulled out another handful of paper. They probably had a hundred trees in the living room alone.

"First. I've already apologized for Elliot. It was never our intention to endanger you or your friends." He paused. "And we never believed that Spike would kill Faith. In fact, we had hoped that one of you would finally rid us of the vampire known as William the Bloody. He was proving difficult to find and capture. I'm afraid that the Council handled the entire affair quite poorly."

"But you knew about the chip and that he was coming here to kill Faith?" Buffy asked sourly.

"Yes. We knew. We didn't find out about the chip and what Elliot had done until just after the Council reformed. Elliot was quite a few steps ahead of us."

"And Cara?"

"Elliot gave her the orders. I'm afraid I don't even know what they were but I'm assuming they weren't what they should have been." He hesitated. "I don't suppose you know what has happened to Cara?"

"I sent her home. Why?"

"We have had no contact with her. No other Slayer has been called but we have been unable to locate her."

"She's probably out killing vampires somewhere." Xander shrugged. "She's a Slayer. I'm sure she can take care of herself."

"About those Slayers." Willow looked up from her book with a frown. "I'm sure the whole Terminator Slayer looks good on paper. But wouldn't you rather have a Slayers who can think for themselves?"

"We didn't expect Faith's death," Iverson said simply. "Cara has only completed the first phase of her training. Similar to boot camp for the armed forces. It utilizes a significant amount of what you might call brainwashing but it is not intended to be the final step. The system we've put in place follows the warrior traditions of the Orient. Codes of honor, duty above all else. Learning to follow orders is part of laying the groundwork."

"So you're not turning them into killing machines?"

"A Slayer is a killing machine, Miss Rosenberg. I'm assuming you're Willow Rosenberg?" Iverson smiled when she nodded. "The idea was to pull these girls out of societal conditioning. Strip them bare of preconceived notions and essentially reprogram them. I know it sounds callous and cruel."

"Understatement of the millennium." Buffy scowled at him.

"The time for Slayers like you, Miss Summers, is over. We felt that we could no longer expect them to attempt the balancing act that you have been forced into. Working for a living, trying to get an education. Taking care of a family. In order to focus them on their mission, we sought to eliminate those pressures. We needed a clean slate to work with."

"So you took away their lives?" Buffy demanded angrily. "You took away the only things that ground them here, that keep them from giving up hope. You might as well have signed their death warrants."

"Perhaps. But we have given them clarity and drive."

"You don't understand. Without family, without friends, there is no reason to keep fighting." Buffy didn't see the surprised looks from the gang.

"For you." Iverson pointed out gently. "You can't forget that these girls aren't like you. They don't think the same way, or feel the same way. The very reasons you keep fighting are the same reasons you want to stop."

"What do you mean?"

"The conflict between being the Slayer and having a normal life is what fuels the desire to have it finally be over. That stress, the burden that you feel, as though the weight of the world is on your shoulders. That is what breaks a Slayer." Iverson's voice softened and his smile faded a little. "We believed that by eliminating those pressures, from society and family, we could keep these girls from giving up. They'll never have normal lives. Neither will you. But they don't know that. They don't feel any pressure to have what you call a normal life. They have no desire to be a part of this world. They are protectors and guardians. They are simply Slayers."

Buffy stared at him, speechless, trying to understand what it would be like not to question everything she did, not to wonder what she was sacrificing. Was her slaying falling behind because of work? Was her life in pieces because of her slaying? Would it be better not to have that constant tug of war?

"Are they still human?" Giles asked.

"As human as Miss Summers. We picked up a few tools of the trade from the military, that is all." Iverson was thoughtfully silent for a moment. "That is why I'm so concerned that Cara hasn't made contact. We don't know what will happen to her if she doesn't complete the training. No idea how she will adapt to this world. She has no mechanisms for dealing with the complexities of morality. No social construct in which to fashion right or wrong. She's like a child, unequipped to deal with adult situations."

"She said she was going back to England." Buffy rubbed her temples, trying to ease the tension headache that was beginning to creep into her skull. "The last I saw her was Monday night."

"We are confident she will return." He didn't sound confident. "I am sorry if you don't agree with our methods but I can assure you that we have decided this is the best option for the girls. We simply couldn't justify allowing them to suffer as you and Faith suffered."

"Her traumatic childhood and the resulting emotional instability could have been avoided if we had found her under the new system. In her case, our training would have been a vast improvement for her and innocent people would not have lost their lives here in Sunnydale." He gave Buffy a measured look. "I'm afraid that Slayers with loving homes and families are the exception rather than the rule."

"Can they love?" Dawn asked curiously. "Your new Slayers."

"It isn't part of their programming beyond love and compassion for mankind and all innocent creatures. Personal, romantic love was not deemed useful in their training. I know how it sounds. I've had to struggle with it day in and day out since the Council put the new system into place. But if we can avoid another Faith then it will be well worth it. And the girls aren't suffering. We don't treat them cruelly or inhumanely." The doorbell interrupted the conversation.

"Probably Fred." Willow hurried to the door. "Fred! Hey. Come on in." The slender woman smiled nervously as she stepped through the doorway, holding a suitcase tightly in front of her like a shield.

"I've got books in the car. Angel carried them out. Too heavy for me."

"Buff?"

"One pack horse coming up." Buffy was relieved for the chance to get out of the house and away from the conversation. Her head was spinning with possibilities. What if he was right? What if it was better to not have family or friends? Every Slayer had a death wish. She had believed that her ties to the world were what kept her from giving in to that desire. What if she had been wrong? What if they were the source of it? Shaking off the gloomy thoughts, she retrieved the box of books from the back seat and turned back to the house. More books. There had to be something in here to help them with Dawn. Introductions were proceeding merrily when she returned, hearing Fred's nervous laughter. The willowy physicist seemed a little skittish and shy, like Willow in high school only about a hundred times worse. If she worked with Angel then she had to have some strength under that rabbit imitation. Hopefully.

"You're Dawn." Fred pulled a chair next to the couch beside Dawn. "I'll really like to have you test a few things. Nothing painful, I promise. Just listening. If you can actually hear dimension fluctuations then I might be able to test my theories for determining boundary conditions."

"Sure." Dawn looked a little confused. "As long as there isn't any ritual bloodletting involved, cause I've done that and it's not fun."

"This is so exciting." Fred beamed as she began searching through the box of books. "I took a few of Wesley's. He wasn't there but I don't think he'll mind and we don't use these particular volumes very often anyway."

"How's the old Watcher doing?" Buffy cleared a space on the coffee table for the new arrivals.

"Good. Good. He's been seeing this woman. Mariata or something. I think she's part demon. Not too sure on the species but he seems to like her." Fred glanced at the Head Watcher apprehensively, still unsure if she was supposed to answer questions in front of him.

"Wesley Wyndham-Price?" Iverson was interested.

"That's the one."

"I've always considered him to be-"

"One of the Council's failures, I know. He told me about it." Fred shrugged.

"Actually, I consider him everything a Watcher should be. It's a pity there aren't more like him." Iverson picked up one of the books curiously. "Although he was a bit of a disappointment here in Sunnydale. Lacking maturity. Personally, I believe Travers sent him here knowing he would fail. They never believed Faith was a suitable Slayer. Too damaged."

"Really?" Fred was surprised. "I'll let him know. He's a little bitter about the whole thing."

"I can imagine. The previous Council tended to be rather medieval in its approach to Slaying."

"Unlike the new one. Orwell would be so proud," Buffy sniped sarcastically.

"Let's focus on Dawn and the Hellmouth, Buffy," Giles intervened before the argument could resume. "Do you have any theories that could apply to what's happening, Fred?" His voice caught a little uncomfortably as he said her name.

"There are a few options." Fred pulled out a folded sheet of paper and spread it out over the books. "Willow gave me the GPS on those places you told her about. Supernatural hotspots. If you flatten the globe and draw intersecting lines through each one of them at forty-five degree angles." She pushed her glasses back on her nose as she traced a dark line over the map. "They're equidistant from each other."

"Evenly spaced," Willow added in layman terms. "Across the globe in regular intervals."

"Forming a matrix." Fred tapped the map. "I think they form a dimensional basis. Like the legs on a chair or the support beams in a building. They hold up the dimensional walls. Think of the anchors on the Golden Gate Bridge. If you think of the boundaries between this dimension and the ones that coexist in this same space, all that separates us is a fold in space-time and an energy barrier. We don't have enough energy to get over the barrier normally. Opening a portal is essentially channeling mystical energy to create small temporary rifts. Like putting your hand in a waterfall."

"And Dawn?"

"Is probably picking up the natural frequency of the energy waves." Fred frowned as she shook her head. "But, this is a new development. I don't know what's changed. It had to be something big. To alter the feedback systems between these hotspots and effect something as fundamental as the boundaries. I don't think there's enough magic in this world to do it."

"So we know what's happening but we don't know why." Buffy closed her book with a sigh. "Why am I not surprised? Do we ever know why?"

"I believe that I can help you with that." Iverson took a deep breath and looked around the room slowly. "We've been tracking increases in supernatural activity at all of these hotspots for some time now. Since Cara was called, they have been growing dramatically. We believe that eventually the influence will be strong enough to alter our very reality. This world has already started to bleed into the other dimensions as they have begun to seep into ours."

"You failed to mention this before." Giles glared at the Watcher.

"You wondered why we didn't stop Elliot. It was because we were far more concerned with what is going on. It is why we allowed him to continue his plan to send Spike to Sunnydale. We didn't realize he planned on the vampire killing Faith and sending Cara to eliminate the rest of you. We needed the vampire neutralized one way or another. Faith was a strong fighter and believed to be capable of beating him."

"What does this have to do with Spike?" Buffy frowned anxiously.

"That's the irony of this whole debacle." Iverson chuckled. "It's all about Spike."

* * *

2B. This was the right apartment. Buffy could see light inside. Taking a deep breath, she knocked loudly on the door. "Please don't be naked. Please don't be having sex." She waited. Nothing. She knocked again.

"Spike? Don't make me kick down the door! It's three in the morning and you're a vampire. I know you're awake!" she called, tapping one foot impatiently. Giles would have a heart attack if he knew what she was doing. She didn't care. Finally, it swung open. Spike blinked at her, half naked and looking more than a little annoyed. Must have been having sex.

"Buffy?"

"Is Faith here?"

"Yeah. What do you want?"

Buffy pushed past him. "Faith! Get dressed and get your ass out here."

"What's goin' on, Slayer?" Spike closed the door.

"You're leaving. Getting out of town. Both of you."

"B? Where's the fire?" Faith was wearing a white button up shirt. Obviously a man's.

Buffy winced at the parade of mental images marching through her brain. It hurt. Damn. It still hurt. "Head Watcher's in town and he's looking for Spike. They want to kill you. They need to kill you."

"Why?" He was suddenly serious.

"To save the world." Buffy laughed, hollow and brittle. "You've broken some sort of meta-whosit law. Made everything go wonky. They think that killing you will make everything go back to normal." She watched him digest the information, blue eyes moving between her and Faith.

"I haven't done anything," Spike said slowly, confused.

"How did you get your soul back? Maybe it's that. Maybe there's only supposed to be one. Like Highlander." She frowned as she finally noticed the fading bruises on his skin. "And what happened to you?"

"Got these lookin' for Faith." He shrugged. "As for the soul, won it back. From a demon."

"You got your soul on purpose? You weren't cursed?"

Spike looked at the ground. "Wanted to be the kind of man who would never...never do what I did to you."

Buffy closed her eyes and took a deep breath, forcing back the tears threatening to humiliate her. "I'll tell Iverson. Just get out of here. I don't think they'll care that you have a soul now."

"I'm not goin' to bloody run, Buffy," he countered forcefully. "Are they sure? That I've done somethin', fucked everything up?"

"Very sure. They've been trying to get you for a year now. Iverson said you've killed twenty of their men."

"What? I haven't killed anyone but Faith and did a piss poor job at that. Haven't killed a soddin' one since Captain Cardboard and his troop of boy scouts put the goddamn chip in my head." He was beginning to get agitated, running his hands through his hair and scowling at the ground.

"I believe you."

"It's the truth...you do?"

Buffy nodded. "But someone has killed those teams. Someone has kept them from getting to you. And they think the only way to keep this whole world from falling apart is to kill you."

"If they're right?" There was fear in his voice.

"We'll find another way." Buffy steeled her resolve. "I didn't let anyone hurt Dawn. I won't let them go after you."

"Buffy?" He looked shocked. He probably was shocked. She was a little surprised at her own vehemence.

"You too, Faith. They don't know about you yet, but I don't know how long until Giles cracks and tells Iverson that you're both here. So you've got to leave tonight. Keep in touch if you can. Let us know you're safe."

"B." Faith's voice was shaky.

"Spike, could you give us a minute?" She waited for the vampire to retreat to the bedroom, knowing that he could still hear her. "Faith. I want you to know that whatever happened between us is in the past. I'm sorry for the things I said. You were right."

"No worries, B." Emotion slipped off of Faith like water on a duck's back. Always casual, always distant.

"I need to say this." Buffy clenched her fists nervously. "I loved him. Spike. I really did. And I waited for him to come back. It hurts. To see you with him, to know." Faith watched her silently, her scarred face unreadable. "And I'm sorry that things weren't different between us. Between you and me."

"It wasn't your fault."

Buffy shook her head. "I should have been a better friend to you. I should have tried harder." She tried to laugh and turned back to the front door. "When Glory wanted Dawn, Spike was the only one who fought as hard as I did to save her. Who never considered killing her even for a second. I'm trusting you to do the same for him now."

"B. Wait." Faith took a step toward her. "Thanks."

Buffy paused, one hand on the doorknob, and looked back over her shoulder. "Ethan isn't in jail, Faith."

"What?" Panic flashed in her dark eyes.

"He's dead." Buffy smiled, tears finally spilling out onto her cheeks. "I killed him."

"Buffy?" Finally an expression, even if it was horrified alarm. And understanding.

"And I'll kill anyone who hurts one of my friends." Her voice broke and she fled the apartment, wiping away the tears as she made her way home.

It felt better. Somehow. Maybe the world would end and maybe killing Spike would have saved it. She didn't care anymore. Slowing down, she strolled leisurely through Sunnydale, enjoying the chirping of the crickets and the soft breeze. Turning away from her street, she wandered toward the park. Settling into one of the swings, she kicked her feet through the wood chips, pretending she was still a little girl and her father was waiting by the picnic table for her. For a long time, she swung lazily and remembered the times when she had been happy. With her family, her friends. Before Sunnydale and vampires. A few times with Willow and Xander. That summer with Dawn while Willow was in England. Nights with Spike when she had hated herself for feeling anything close to happiness with him.

She was too tired to feel angry or hurt. Despair was tiresome. She had been holding all the pain inside for too long. Letting it control her, make her cold and bitter. The Great Buffy Freeze Out was what Dawn called it when she didn't know Buffy was listening. Ever since the First. It had been hard to be just a sister and just a friend after that. After watching so many girls die fighting. Being responsible for them. She thought of Chloe for a few minutes, wondering if she could have saved her. She would always wonder. It didn't feel as much like failure anymore. She couldn't save everyone. But she would do what she could. Maybe that was all that mattered. Doing what you could day after day.

Giles wouldn't understand, but Dawn would and Willow would. Even Xander wouldn't hate her for warning Spike. As much as he protested and as much as Xander had hated Spike, he understood protecting those you cared about. He'd been trying to protect her since he met her a decade earlier. Her white knight.

If Iverson was right and the ties that bound her were the ties that caused her pain, then she was betraying her duty as a Slayer. She was sacrificing the world for a vampire and a rogue Slayer. Was it really that important? The world was bound to end someday. In a blaze of fire or a swarm of demons, it was all the same. Everything died. Everything came to an end. She could only avert so many apocalypses before there was one she couldn't stop. She couldn't save the world forever.

Pale light appeared in the east and she smiled into the coming sunrise. Dawn. Her sister would probably like pancakes for breakfast. If she got home in time, she could practice a few times before the house woke up. Maybe after a few runs, she could actually manage something edible. Whistling cheerfully, she left the swing set and headed home.

When the end came, it wouldn't matter how many demons she had killed, just that she had been a good friend and a good sister. The bittersweet memory of her tombstone surfaced. She had forgotten that the most important part wasn't that she had saved the world a lot. The most important words were _Devoted Sister, Beloved Friend_. It was time she started being both of those again. There were enough Slayers. She only had one sister, one Willow, one Xander. It was time to start living again. There were lights shining through the living room windows as she let herself inside.

"Buffy." Giles was standing the doorway. "I've told Iverson about Faith. I'm sorry. I felt it was important. Now that we know Spike is the cause of whatever is happening." Iverson appeared behind him, looking like a man who hadn't slept in two days.

"Did he tell you that Spike has a soul?" Buffy asked quietly. "That he won it back. On purpose. Because he wanted to be a better man." The two Englishmen were speechless. "And you can forget about trying to kill him. They're gone. Left town."

Giles stared at her incredulously. "What have you done?"

Buffy smiled as she headed for the kitchen. "Something a friend would do."


	20. The Reckoning

**The Reckoning**

Cara had been tracking the vampires for days. They moved fast, a pack of demonic wolves ghosting through the night. At first she had believed they were merely rampaging across the country without pattern or motive. By the second night she wasn't sure anymore. There was too much method in their madness, strikes were tactically orchestrated and surgically precise. They were hunting the way she had been taught was impossible and left in their wake were the bloodless bodies she expected but none had been turned. These vampires had no interest in making more of their kind, they simply pressed on after they had eaten in a search and destroy mission that left her baffled and tired.

They were killing families. It couldn't be random. Going out of their way to find small towns, singling out one family and butchering all of them. Sometimes not even feeding. Just murder.

She learned to recognize the type of person who would help her and where to look for food and shelter. Weapons were kept hidden in her knapsack. Ironically, she had grown to favor a simple wooden stake. It didn't need bullets or polishing. The sword was useful but lacked the advantages of the more compact weapon. Sitting in the darkest corner of the soup kitchen and homeless shelter that served as a church on Sundays, she examined the stake carefully in the faint light.

The human had made it. Xander Harris. He'd given it to her with a smile and a welcoming handshake. Had never asked for or expected anything in return even though she knew it must have taken him some time to make. It was engraved with an ivy pattern, twisting into knots at the blunt end and circling in graceful loops. A Xander Harris Special, he had called it. Everything was different than what she had imagined it to be. The world was different. People were different. No one gave her orders, no one made demands. She drifted from place to place, following vampires and demons, hunting them down. As she was supposed to do. She wasn't supposed to wonder why they singled out one family or another. That wasn't part of her calling.

Cara had begun to wonder if the Watchers knew anything at all about her sacred duty. They told her that Buffy Summers was incompetent but Cara had seen the resourcefulness and indefatigable dedication of a true warrior. The other Slayer had shown mercy, sparing Cara's life when she had no guarantee that Cara would not return. Her fingers traced the grooves in the stake slowly. It was the vampire that truly baffled her. William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, had bested her and refused to kill her. Had not even killed the Slayer before Cara, although that was still quite confusing. She'd watched him hold Faith, comforting her with a human tenderness and concern. It wasn't possible. Vampires were monsters incapable of human emotion. But she could not deny what she had seen.

Lost in a world she was unprepared to deal with, she fell back on what she knew. She was a Vampire Slayer. Her entire existence was to protect the world from the evil that walked the night. It was simple; she sensed that those around her had much more complex ideas about their reason for being. She left them to their own devices. And she was getting better. It was something she knew in her heart and in her bones. Each fight she won gave her another piece of the puzzle, another step to becoming a good Slayer. Maybe an excellent Slayer. Someday.

If her estimation, as unsure as she felt, was correct, another family would meet the group of vampires tonight in the town that had offered her refuge and chicken dumplings. There was no pattern to the killings. No connections between the victims but their murderers. By midnight the group would be on their way to the next town and possibly another hit before dawn.

The worn map of the Midwest crinkled as she smoothed away some of the creases. Dark pen marks identified the towns that had been left shell-shocked by the horror and carnage. Zigzagging through the Virginias in one night, she had been more than two steps behind them until discovering a scrap of paper in the dirty lair they left behind. An address printed neatly on white paper. A town called Defiance. She found her way to the town, forgoing sleep and rest until she was inside the city limits. Now barely ahead of them, she watched their progress across Ohio in the newspapers, getting closer and closer. And she waited.

It was almost dark. She watched the sun turn gold through the far window, hiding in the shadows away from the hustle and bustle of the human world. The weight of the knapsack was an old friend. At least, that's what Cara believed an old friend would feel like if she had one. Familiar, comforting. Precisely refolding the map, she tucked it away in the sack and slipped her stake into the inside pocket of the denim jacket she had found alongside the highway. All that remained of her uniform were the heavy black boots. Black pants had been replaced by dusty gray trousers she had tied with a piece of rope around her waist and the heavy cotton tank had given way to a long-sleeved plaid with patches at the elbows.

Silently, she faded into the crowd and left the shelter behind. Daylight rapidly fading, she breathed in the soft scent of earth and corn. At least she thought it was the corn. The Watchers hadn't taught her about the plants and animals that weren't trying to kill her. For a second, the corner of her mouth twitched and she wondered if she had just thought of something humorous. The concept of a sense of humor was still a little hazy and she wasn't sure if she had one. Was she supposed to?

The target's house had white siding with a brick chimney and a sagging front porch. A mailbox hung listlessly, iridescent letters announcing that the Carlisle's lived inside the shuttered windows. There was a tricycle peeling red paint over the walkway and a lonely beach ball on the struggling lawn. She didn't know what to do now. There weren't many places for her to hide and watch for the vampires. The light beckoned from the porch. She made her decision.

Boots sounded faintly against the concrete and the wooden steps creaked under the strain of her weight. A line of bushes along the side would provide cover for an ambush. Most of the lights were out and people had pulled their blinds. Where would the attack come from? How were the vampires getting into the houses at all?

Her finger depressed the doorbell and she listened to it echo through the interior of the house. The door swung inward a few inches and a small face stared out through the screen door.

"Who are you?" The little girl watched her with large, solemn eyes.

"My name is Cara."

"Who's at the door, Lea?" A woman's voice moved closer and the door opened completely. She was young. Light brown hair pulled into a clip, tanned skin enhanced by the yellow sundress that belied a strong build. There were tired wrinkles around her eyes. One hand moved to her daughter's shoulder protectively. "Can I help you?"

Cara hesitated. Buffy would know what to do. The thought strengthened her resolve; she may not be the best Slayer in the world but if she could do something to protect this family then she would. "I'm here to help you."

"We don't need anything. I'm sorry." The woman smiled, seeming to relax. "I know the house doesn't look like much but we can't afford to have it repainted right now. Lea's been sick and my husband just got a new job." She stopped, her cheeks flushing pink. "Why don't you come in?"

Cara tightened her grip on the knapsack, conscious of the little girl's intent stare as she passed over the threshold and awkwardly stepped out of the way as the door closed.

"I'm Maddie. Short for Madeleine. This is Lea." Maddie beamed as she introduced her daughter, brushing dark hair away from her elfish face. "Say hello Lea." The little girl hugged her mother's leg shyly. "She's not used to people. For a while all she saw were nurses and doctors. Isn't that right, Lea?"

"I'm Cara." She repeated, trying to smile. It felt strange but seemed to be expected. People smiled at her sometimes. She wasn't always sure what it meant.

"I've got coffee brewing if you'd like some. John isn't home yet. What are you selling? You seem too young to be on your own."

Cara followed Maddie into the kitchen, still clutching her knapsack and watching Lea carefully. "I'm not selling anything. I'm here to protect you."

Maddie frowned. "Are you some sort of missionary? From the church? I know we haven't gone to service much since Lea got sick but now that she's better." She gave her daughter another hug, as though she was trying to reassure herself that the ordeal was truly over.

"There are people coming here. Tonight." Cara felt awkward. She wasn't supposed to get involved with the victims. "They want to hurt you and your family. Don't invite them in."

"What are you talking about?" She pulled Lea closer to her, her face paling in the yellow light of the kitchen. "I think you'd better leave."

Cara took a step back, strangely upset and frustrated by the difficulty of the simple conversation. "They can't come in unless you invite them."

"Please leave."

The doorbell rang. Maddie jumped, terrified eyes darting toward the hallway as she pulled Lea closer to her.

Cara headed for the back door, slipping the other strap of the knapsack onto her shoulder and securing it tightly. She pulled out the sword as she vaulted from the steps into the backyard. Creeping silently along the line of bushes, she made her way around to the front of the house. Four figures stood on the front porch. Moving closer, she caught part of the conversation.

"What's going on? John?" Maddie sounded upset.

"Just do as they tell you, please, honey." The man was terrified.

"I don't understand. Who are these people? What do they want with you?"

"Invite us in, lady." One of the vampires shoved the man forward. "Or you'll be cleaning up pieces of your husband for days."

"Please." Maddie's voice was almost inaudible. "What do you want?"

Cara clenched her teeth, wishing for a crossbow as she left the cover of the bushes. Catching the tricycle with her boot, she made sure the wheels drug loudly across the pavement. The vamps turned, still wearing their human faces, and glared at her angrily. She faced them squarely, meeting their eyes. "Let him go."

"Get out of here, girl. We have no business with you."

"You are my business." Almost a quip. Maybe she did have a sense of humor after all. "Let him go."

Two of them left the porch, shifting into their demon faces as soon as their backs were turned away from the house. "You're making a big mistake," one of them sneered as they advanced.

"I won't let you hurt them." Cara gripped the handle of the sword, tensing for the attack. A blur of movement out of the corner of her eye gave her warning and she caught his fist inches away from her face. The blade of her sword sunk into the flesh of his stomach and her boot hit the second vamp squarely in the chest, knocking him back onto the porch steps with a crash. Wrenching his hand away from her grip, the vamp stared at the bleeding wound in shock.

Covered with blood, the sword flashed through the air, slicing his head cleanly off and leaving a cloud of dust behind. She transferred the sword to her left hand and pulled the stake out of her jacket as the second vamp charged her. They traded blows across the lawn, the beach ball bouncing away from their feet as they moved. Finally catching the vamp off guard, she skewered his right thigh and plunged the stake into his heart when he reached for the blade.

The last vamp was still on the porch shouting at Maddie, one hand around John's throat. Cara closed the distance with a running leap, driving the stake home. John collapsed onto the porch, gasping painfully for air.

"Who...who are you?" he stared up at her with terrified eyes.

"My name is Cara." She saw Lea peering around the doorframe and smiled. A real smile.

Maddie pulled her husband into her arms, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Thank you...thank you. Whoever you are."

"There might be more." Cara wiped the blood off of her sword onto her pant leg. "Be careful."

"Who were they? What did they want?"

"To kill you. All of you." Cara wasn't sure if the truth was the best answer but she didn't know how else to respond. She didn't know any other way to be.

"Why?"

"I don't know." Cara frowned. She would have to look. Perhaps they had stayed in town for the day. It was too soon after dark for them to have come into town. Unless. She frowned as she looked over her shoulder, trying to see through the shadows. "Go inside. Lock the doors and don't let anyone in."

The whistling of the grenade caught Cara's ears seconds before it crashed through the front window. She yanked Maddie and John through the doorway, wrapping her arm around Lea's small waist and leaping away as the blast hit them. Her shoulder took the brunt of the fall as they struck the hard ground in front of the house. Lea was clinging to her like a starfish, eyes closed tight.

Horrified, Maddie watched as fire began to lick around the edges of the window. "Our house!"

"We have to move." Cara pulled them to their feet, searching the night for the vampires she could sense. "Where's the nearest church? Crosses, holy water. A priest."

Shakily, John pointed to the west. "It's a few blocks."

"Take Lea." Cara handed the girl to her parents. "Now run."

"What about you?"

"Get out of here." Cara pushed them in the right direction, following at a distance. Close enough to catch up if they were attacked, far enough to keep them out of harm's way if they were followed. There were two or three more shadows lurking just beyond her sight as they made their way through the sleeping town.

Sirens sounded in the distance as the fire department responded to reports of a house on fire. She was jogging, easily keeping up with the family running ahead of her. Rounding the corner, she saw a tall spire reaching toward the heavens. She had never been more relieved to see a church in her entire life. Maddie and John hurried toward the small brick home behind the holy building. Lights sprung to life as they pounded on the door. Keeping her eyes trained on the fast moving shapes darting like wolves in the corner of her vision, Cara backed toward the house, hearing the minister usher the small family into his home.

"Miss? Are you alright?" He was an older man with a kind face. Someone she would have looked for if she'd needed food and a place to sleep.

"They aren't safe." Cara turned her eyes back to the darkness. "Get into the basement if you have one. Cover the windows if you can."

"What's going on?"

"They're coming." Cara lowered the blade of her sword. "Get inside." The door clicked shut behind her and silence settled over the walkway. Branches swayed above her, leaves whispering into the darkness. She needed to get their attention away from the family, draw their attack away from the house. Glittering eyes peered out of the darkness and the all too familiar demonic visage came into the light of the street lamp.

"You're playing with fire, little girl." The vampire was tall, dressed in military fatigues and black boots. A dark jacket covered more black fabric. "You can't stop us."

"I'm doing pretty good so far." Cara took a step to the left, starting the circular dance of predator and prey.

"You have no idea who you're up against." The vampire growled as he edged closer. There were two more in the wings, waiting for an opening.

Cara heard the familiar sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber and dove to the side, rolling toward cover. Sparks flew from the concrete behind her, tearing into tree trunks and bushes. She counted the hits as well as she could, keeping track of each bullet. They would have to reload eventually. Her knapsack dug into her back as she pulled up against a tree. Twisting around, she pawed through it for her pistols. The weight of the firearms felt good in her hands. She had been hesitant to use them because running out of ammunition meant having to return to England and she wasn't ready to go back.

Almost unrecognizable in the soft wind, she caught the hiss of a magazine being ejected. If they were any good, she had two seconds. Pivoting on her left knee out and away from the tree, she raised the guns and fired. One of the three vamps exploded into dust, another stumbled backwards, her shot too high. The third slammed another magazine into his gun, squeezing off a shot before a bullet shattered the bones in his hand and another ripped through his skull.

Her shoulder burned. She could smell gunpowder and blood as she reached for her stake and inched forward, slipping her left pistol into her knapsack. One of the remaining vampires groaned and tried to sit up, she fired another shot to keep him down. Their wounds weren't fatal but they wouldn't be getting up any time soon. Finishing them off with the stake, she scanned the area for more. It was clear. She collected her weapons and settled down on the porch of the minister's house just in case. Wincing at the pain, she peeled her jacket off and inspected the bullet wound in her shoulder. It had gone straight through without hitting any major nerves or arteries. She tested her fingers just to be safe. Leaning back against the brick, she wedged her jacket awkwardly between the exit wound and the rough stone. The heel of her palm pressed against the entrance, stopping the flow of blood on both sides.

At least they were alive. And she knew a little more than she had before. There was someone behind the killings, picking and choosing the families for a reason.

"Are you alright?" The minister was barely visible through the crack in the door.

"They're gone." Cara told him, her voice taut.

"I heard gunfire." The door opened further and he ventured onto the porch, a light bulb flickered overhead and he knelt down beside her. "You're injured."

"I'll heal."

Serious eyes regarded her thoughtfully. "You've been shot. Let me get you to a hospital."

"I need to stay. If more of them come back." Cara looked away. "I need to protect them."

"Will you let me take a look?"

Cara pulled back her hand and looked down at the blood soaked shirt. "It's a clean shot. I'll be fine. Could use a new shirt though, if you have one you're not using anymore."

He blinked at her with disbelief. "Are you sure? An ambulance could be here in just a few minutes."

"No." She shifted painfully against the brick. "Need to make sure they're safe."

"Do you know who those men were?"

"I've been tracking them." She was so tired. She hadn't slept in nearly three days. All she wanted was to close her eyes and rest. "Killing families. Had to stop them." The world was beginning to spin.

"Miss? Miss?" His concerned face split into multiples and she fought against the haze filling her mind. "I'm going to call the ambulance."

"Wait." Her voice sounded far away in her ears. "Vampires."

"What?"

"Vampires." Black curtains closed over her eyes and she felt herself falling.

* * *

"Ever get tired of running?" Faith leans against the window of the passenger seat, staring out into the rain soaked night.

"Sometimes." I turn back to the road. "You?"

"All I've ever done is run." She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Where are we?"

"Coastal highway. Coming up on Portland." Los Angeles was as far as we had gotten the night we left Sunnydale. Stopping to wait out the sun, get some supplies and rest before heading north. Why north? Why not? Figured it was the one direction I hadn't taken yet. Another day spent in a cheap motel just south of the Oregon border. It seems like a bloody dream. Not exactly a fantasy. Just unreal.

"Guess we'll get to see a bit of the world after all." She sounds far away.

"Yeah."

"Never been to Portland." She's talking as if trying to reassure herself she still can. It's not like her to ramble.

"You all right, Slayer?"

"Fine." She doesn't look toward me when she answers. "Just...just nothing."

"Bloody terrible liar, pet."

"I've been told." There's a hint of a smile in her face and I hear her shift in the seat. "Why did you get your soul back?"

"Thought I was in love. Thought if I had a soul, she could love me back." Talk about irony. I can still hear Buffy's voice, telling Faith that she had loved me. Had waited for me. That she was jealous. It's a sick world.

"Cause she loved Angel?"

"She never really loved him." I shrug. "She was obsessed with him. They were so fucking lost in each other, draggin' each other down. That's not love. Passion, lust, obsession. Had those in spades. But not love."

"What is love?"

"Hell if I know. Thought I did back then." I flip the windshield wipers up a notch. "Told Buffy once, after Dru left me the first time, I was love's bitch. Always have been. Goin' this way, the way. All over the goddamn planet for a bleedin' woman. Cecily, Dru, Buffy. Thought I loved every one of em. Not so sure now."

"I think she still loves you."

I shake my head. "Feels for me. That's how she said it. But it's not love. She's a Slayer. Slayers don't fall in love with vampires." Silence. Driving feels good. Bloody amazing to be doing something other than lying in bed headed straight for Bedlam. At the same time, I feel like a kicked dog creeping away to lick his wounds and whimper.

"Why'd she tell us about the Watcher then?"

"Maybe." She sighs and changes her position again. "She killed Ethan."

I had heard that too. Would've been more shocked if I hadn't already been picking my jaw up off the floor. "Bastard deserved it. Would've done it myself if I'd had another shot at it. Ripped his throat out." I'm glad he's dead but unnerved that it was Buffy who'd done it. The memory of her suggesting the gang go out for dinner has turned chilling. She wanted us out of the way so we wouldn't know and wouldn't stop her. It wasn't the Buffy I had known.

"She's changed."

"Won't disagree."

"I'm glad." The words are muffled by the blanket. "That he's dead."

"I can imagine." More silence. It's not awkward. Somehow it's comfortable to just be together. Quiet.

"Do you feel like a coward? Running away when the world might be ending?"

I risk a glance toward her. "A little. Didn't particularly fancy the Watcher's remedy. Not quite ready to be fittin' in an ashtray just yet." It shouldn't matter but it does. I'm not ready to leave this world. I don't want to die. That makes me laugh. The undead vampire doesn't want to die. She raises one eyebrow over the edge of the blanket.

"What's funny?"

"Whole rotten soap opera. Vampires with souls. Slayers. Load of rubbish and fairytales, the lot of it."

"I guess." She hesitates. "Ever wonder if none of it's real? Like it's just a dream. I used to think about that. In prison. That maybe I was just crazy and none of it was real."

"Hurts real enough." She doesn't respond but I know she agrees with me

"Do you think the world is really going to end?"

"Eventually."

"I mean this time."

"Maybe."

"What if they're right? About you?"

"You lookin' for somethin' deep and thought-provoking, luv? Or is the Sartre kick just passin' the time?" She wraps the blanket tighter around her legs and leans forward, resting her temple on the dashboard as she watches me. No answer. I sigh. "You mean, if there's no other way to save the world but to send my poor soul back to whence it came?"

"Yeah. If they can't find anything else. It's you or the world. One vampire for the whole wide world."

"You get the honors then. Not too keen on doin' it myself." She blanches at the statement and turns away. "Only proper. Seein' how I killed you. Right poetic in a way."

"But I can't bring you back from dust."

"Wouldn't want to come back, luv." A rest stop comes into view and I pull off of the highway, distracted by the conversation and my own disturbing thoughts. "I've seen things, done things. More than a hundred years. More than any man should have to live."

"Don't want to feel guilty anymore? About the people you killed."

"Faith." I pull her into my arms, brushing her hair back. "What I did before I got the soul back, that was the demon. Little different. Not trying to say it was right or that I don't feel every one of them screamin' inside my head all the time. But it's different. Vampires kill to survive."

"Like animals."

"I'll never be anything but a vamp, luv. Never have a family. Bloody immortal unless someone sticks a piece of wood through my heart or chops off my head. Too much of a coward to take an afternoon stroll on my own."

"You mean that everyone you love is going to get old and die."

"Fact of life. Humans age, I don't." Nuzzling her hair, I breathe in the scent of magnolias. "Hard to watch people you care about die."

"You could turn them."

"Not the same. It's a demon starin' out of their eyes." Like my mother. I don't add that part. Not ready to let Faith in on that bit of my history. Turned me off of the whole Sire gig entirely. "This world doesn't hold much for my kind. Good body count and a chance to go down fighting. That's all."

"Spike." She looks up at me, her dark eyes full of an emotion I can't read. "What if there isn't another way?"

Cupping her face in my hands, I kiss her lips gently. "You're a Slayer. Part of the job description." She pulls away, shaking her head sadly. "You'll be fine, luv." Part of me has already accepted that there might not be another way. There's that death wish again. Longing for the dance to finally end and let me out of this existence.

"Just isn't right." She tries to smile. "You saved me. I should be able to save you."

"You saved yourself." Another kiss. She responds fervently this time, wrapping her arms around my neck tightly. We're locked together, a little afraid and a little desperate. Nothing but the undeniable connection between us. I don't know what it is or what it means. I'm not sure it has to mean something. All I know is that in her arms, wrapped in the heat of her body, everything fades away. For a moment, a fraction of a second in my very long time as a walking corpse, I'm alive.

* * *

Angel found Cordelia working at her desk. Getting a head start on the paperwork for federal taxes was what she had told Wesley before he went home. He watched her from the shadows for a few minutes. No hint of an expression on her face, just sad, tired eyes. It was late. She worked too hard, driven by demons of her own making. By the past she wasn't responsible for. He knew what it was like to feel guilty for crimes he hadn't really committed. For lives a demon had taken with his hands and his face. Cordelia refused to listen.

"In or out, Angel." She didn't look up, just continued to punch numbers into the computer, occasionally stopping to write something down in a notebook.

If someone had told him that she would ever turn into the woman he saw now, he would have laughed. Someone who spent more time with computers and books, who only left the office to sleep and eat, who refused to date or pursue even a benign social life. Cordelia Chase? In a worn plaid skirt that covered waist to ankles and a conservative cream blouse. Impossible. But there she was. And there was nothing he could do to reach her.

"You're working late." He stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced around the dimly lit office. The screen and the desk lamp were the only sources of light.

"Has to be done sometime. I didn't have any plans." She still wasn't looking at him.

"About that." He sat down on the couch. "There's a new club Gunn says is pretty cool. Thought I'd check it out."

"Because you do so much dating." There was the barest hint of the old Cordelia sarcasm. It was because she knew he was lying through his teeth.

"Maybe I was going to ask you to come with me."

"Don't have anything to wear."

"We could go shopping."

"Not interested."

Angel wanted to shake her. He knew better than to get close to her. The last time he tried, he'd been thrown through a wall for his effort. "How long are you going to do this to yourself?"

"Do what?" She was almost flippant.

"Shut us all out. It wasn't your fault."

Finally she looked at him. "Last time I checked, I'm the one who gave birth to the psycho hypno lady who tried to take over the world and oh yes, killed your son. Who I slept with and manipulated into trying to kill you. Sounds like it was pretty much my fault."

"Gee. Funny how the guilt doesn't really lose its edge. Wouldn't you agree?" she snapped coldly, turning back to the computer.

"Cordelia."

"That's me."

"It's not your fault that the visions have stopped." Angel looked down at his hands, still numb from hearing the news himself. "Fred called. I think I know what happened."

"What? Is it the Hellmouth?"

"No." He shook his head. "It's me. I'm not their Champion. Not anymore."

He saw her squash the impulse to come to him, gripping the edge of the desk tightly. "That's impossible. You've done everything you could have. You've saved the world half a dozen times."

"Apparently it's not enough." Good old Cordy, always coming to the defense of others.

"Whatever Fred told you, it has to be wrong. What did she tell you?"

"There's another vampire. With a soul."

"That's impossible. The scrolls only talked about one. That's something they would mention." She lost the battle and moved away from the desk, hesitantly sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. "Wouldn't they have told us? Sent a vision or something. They wouldn't just abandon you." She paused. "Does this mean no shanshu?"

"Probably."

"That's not fair!" She got back to her feet and began pacing angrily. "You've worked so hard! Too hard. They can't do this. You don't deserve this just because some Angel wannabe decides to get himself cursed."

"It's Spike."

"Spike? As in William the Bloody? As in too much bleach melted my brain, Spike?"

"One and the same."

"That's it." She glared up at the ceiling, hands on her hips. "Get your high and mighty butts down here! I know you're watching. I've been up there too, remember? I'm going to give the Powers that Screw Us Over a piece of my mind. You're a champion. They can't treat you this way."

"Cordy."

"What?"

"It's not your fault." He watched her features twist through an array of emotions. She struggled to force them back under the blank mask she'd been wearing for the last three years.

Then she went completely still. "Angel?"

"Cordy?"

Her eyes closed and she stumbled away from him, grabbing onto the desk and knocking over a mug of pencils and pens. They scattered onto the floor and she reached out for him. He was at her side instantly, steadying her and pulling her into his arms.

"What was it?"

"Vision. Vampires." She stared down at the pencils rolling away from the desk.

"Where?"

"Sunnydale."

* * *

Waking in the hospital was the first time Cara had felt clean since leaving Sunnydale. She'd never seen a hospital; it was strange. Most everything in the United States was strange. Sitting up carefully she checked her shoulder. It was healing nicely. There was a tube attached to her hand with a needle sticking into her skin. She peeled back the surgical tape, grimacing as she extracted the IV. Lying next to the bed was a bag with her clothes, dirty and stained with blood, and her boots. Her knapsack was missing.

Careful not to rip at the bandages on her shoulder, she got dressed as quickly as she could. She was on unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory. They would want to know who she was and where she was from. Questions she could not answer without betraying her calling.

"Miss? What do you think you're doing?" The nurse frowned, holding the clipboard at her side.

"I have to go."

"Why don't you lie down and I'll get the doctor?" Her nametag read Lily. She stayed in the doorway, one hand against the frame to completely block the exit.

"I'm sorry." Cara started forward, wondering if she was supposed to push the woman out of the way or initiate a conversation. Her training had been egregiously lacking in similar scenarios.

"Dr. Anderson!" Lily yelled over her shoulder, watching Cara with more annoyance than apprehension. There were three more female nurses in the hallway, two men who could have been doctors, and a security guard.

Cara wasn't supposed to fight innocents. Hurting them was the most probable outcome of any confrontation. Frowning, she glanced around for another way out. There was a window next to the door looking out of the room and she could see a cart of linen supplies on the other side of the hallway. What floor was she on? She didn't remember seeing anything over two or three stories when she came into town.

An older man moved into the room, his hands up in a gesture of peace. "Miss. Just calm down. We'll get you out of here as soon as-"

She pushed off the chair to gain momentum, one boot catching the top of the radiator to give her the rest. Arms folded in front of her face, she crashed through the window, tucking into a ball as she fell. Her shoulders hit the cold linoleum, curving her into a roll that brought her back to her feet. Steel met her fingers and she dragged the cart to the side, throwing towels across the floor and blocking the hallway. Surprised faces raced by as she scanned the walls for the green Exit sign. There it was. Stairs. Using the handrail as part support, part slide, she took the stairs in two steps. Another door led to the lobby. A few confused looks and one shout for her to stop and then she was blinking into the bright light of the sun as she wove her way through the parking lot. Getting her weapons was the first priority. Food and shelter were next.

Finding the gutted remains of the Carlisle's house was easy. She remembered the address perfectly. At least that part of her training had proven useful. Retracing her path from the night before, she found the church and the brick home behind it. Hesitantly, she climbed up the steps and knocked twice on the wooden door.

"Coming!" The priest's voice was muffled. There was a click as the deadbolt slid back and he opened the door. "You! Are you all right? What are you doing out of the hospital?"

"My bag." She pulled away as he took a step toward her. "I need my bag. Do you have it?"

"Of course. Come in." He stepped back through the doorway.

"You shouldn't do that," she said quickly. "Don't invite strangers in."

"Yes. Vampires. I remember." He was uneasy and smiling too brightly in an attempt to hide it from her. She could see the knapsack sitting on top of the small round table, the handle of the sword sticking out of the zippered opening. Waiting on the porch, she watched him pick up the sack. She took it from his outstretched hands with a nod of thanks.

"How is your shoulder?"

"Fine." She wavered, knowing that she should leave immediately. "The family?"

"Safe with friends. Their house was lost but they managed to save a few of their belongings. Water damaged but intact." Kind eyes were trying to look through her. "Do you have friends here? Family?"

She shook her head and took a step back, starting down the steps slowly. "I have to go."

"Where?" He moved forward. "Where will you go?"

She didn't know.

"I'm just trying to help."

Cara blinked with sudden comprehension as he took another step. This was how it started. This was how Xander Harris had gotten involved. A moment like this had nearly cost him his life. She had been sent to kill him. The air caught in her throat. Stumbling backward, she turned and ran until her lungs burned and her shoulder was throbbing painfully. Defiance, Ohio faded into the background as she plunged into an endless field of tall grass.

Gasping for breath, she finally stopped and sunk to the ground. They had sent her to kill him. An innocent. Like the family she had saved and those who had been slaughtered. Innocent. She had almost done it. She hadn't questioned them. Just followed orders. Obeyed. She always obeyed. Fingers sunk into the soft earth as she curled into a ball, breathing raggedly and trying to ease the aching in her chest. She didn't understand why it hurt, why it bit into her like fangs or bullets, ripping her apart. She should have stayed in the hospital. Something was wrong with her. Shaking her head futilely against the assault of pain, she began rocking back and forth, eyes burning with tears. She had never cried before.

Eventually the sobs lessened, tears dried up, and the heavy weight inside stopped stabbing into her heart. Leaning back on her heels, she looked around at the waving grass, blinking into the sunlight. Her training instructed her to return to England. Return to the Watchers. Report back. Receive new orders. They would probably send her to kill more innocent people.

Brushing the dirt off of her hands, she started back through the field, jaw set tightly and lips pressed into a grim line. She didn't need new orders. She didn't need any of their training or their lies. The only thing she needed from the Watchers was more bullets. And she would find those somewhere else.

* * *

The demons scowled into the forest. This was supposed to be easy. They'd gotten a tip that William the Bloody was in Sunnydale. Cable had promised them an obscene amount of money to return with his beaten corpse. It was a small town. It had a Hellmouth. It should have been easy.

"We've been walking in circles." Tipoc slammed his fist into a tree trunk to vent his frustration. "Cable's going to be furious when we go back without the vampire."

"We're not going back without him." His long time hunting partner, Lyhgi, squinted into the night. One clawed hand rested on the blade of his knife. Always be prepared was his motto. "The trees are moving."

"Trees can't move, dung-brain." He cursed a bit more in his native tongue, knowing his dear momma was probably rolling at the bottom of her funeral mound.

"I'm telling you they're moving," Lyhgi insisted. The forest was making him nervous. It watched him. It was following him and stringing him along. It was toying with him. He hated it. "Let's get out of here. It's almost dawn. We'll try again tomorrow night."

Dejected, they trudged through the brush in the direction they thought was the way out of the forest. Trees stretched out as far as the eye could see. Which was pretty far for a Morva demon. Sunnydale hadn't seemed that large and Lyhgi was sure the forest wasn't. His two hearts almost skipped a beat when he saw the faint rays of light piercing through the tree trunks.

"There. Light." He pointed, motioning to his partner to follow. They hurried through the bushes toward their first sign of hope. Bursting into sunlight, they were surprised to find themselves on a rocky beach.

"How did we get here?"

"Doesn't matter. We can follow the coast. Find a road."

"What's that noise?"

"What noise?" Lyhgi cocked his head to the side. A low hiss or rumbling, like wind through the trees. He turned back to the forest, searching the shadows for the source.

Tipoc tapped his shoulder. "Lyhgi?"

He brushed away the contact. "Shut up. I'm listening." The roaring was getting louder, closer.

"Lyhgi?"

"What?" He turned around an instant before the tidal wave struck them. The force of the water drove them down against the boulders and dragged at their feet, pulling them into the bay. Fighting for the surface, the riptide caught them and yanked them further out to sea. It didn't make any sense, this part of the coast was calm. He blinked into the murky water as it filled his lungs. Everything went black.

On the shore, a young girl was dancing over the boulders singing a nursery rhyme. She giggled as the waves lapped around her ankles. Clad in a pale green dress that fluttered with the breeze, she wandered barefoot into the forest, long dark hair slipping through the branches like water. She paused at the tree trunk the demon had struck.

"Are you better?" The tree rustled its branches in answer. "I have swept them away into the ocean for the fish to feast." Gaia laughed as she wrapped her thin arms around the tree, green eyes twinkling mischievously. "They shall not harm you again. And they shall not find Chronos' vampire. Do you suppose it's a pet? Perhaps it knows tricks." Returning to her song, she twirled and hopped through the forest, carefree and unburdened.


	21. Familiar Faces

**Faith**

There's a light just beyond my reach. Something warm and welcoming. Am I dead? Am I finally free? A scent catches my attention. Magnolias. Disjointed memories return in a flood of pain. I'm confused. Where am I? What happened? Insanity beckons, promising sweet release from something terrible. I have done something terrible. I have killed.

William is there inside of me. I can feel him pulling me out of the dark, out of the quicksand sucking me under. I open my eyes slowly, seeing sunlight filtering in through the blinds. There is warmth at my side.

Stiffly, I turn my head and see her lying beside me. Dark hair fans out beneath her, one hand tucked under her chin. She looks like an angel. Magnolia. _Faith_. The memories fall into place and I roll away from her, crashing to the floor and scrambling away, crab-like, from the bed. Horrified, I see the bruises on her face. My fingerprints on her neck. Her heartbeat sounds loud and steady in my ears. She's alive. How can she be alive?

A moment of clarity strikes through my madness. Faith was alive. I was fucked. A one-way ticket to eternal torment was coming my way from a cute little cherub in red galoshes. Pain. Torment. I couldn't keep my promises. I hadn't saved Dawn. I couldn't kill Faith. How had I gotten here? Demon Spike whispered that she was sleeping; I could finish the job. Keep my promise. She would be gone and I wouldn't have to suffer anymore.

No. That was the soul. William the Bloody Awful Poet. There had been enough death, enough hatred, enough rage. They tear me between them, a game of tug-of-war as each struggles for control. Who am I? Am I Spike, the vampire shmuck? Or William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, who can't learn to keep his mouth shut and stay away from the bints. Then there's William Davis, melancholy bartender and feature writer for the Sunnydale Press. Which one is real? Which one is me?

Beyond me, the world is far away and I can't focus my eyes. I'm insane. Trapped within my head and my pain. How had I let my life fall apart? Thoughts are broken. I try to snatch them out of the fog, hooking them together, and searching for coherence and rationality. What happened to me?

The answer is simple, obvious. I lost hope. Dark memories of rain and desperate cries to the weeping sky come to mind. The day the little girl had offered me a deal. That was it. The moment I said yes, committing myself to one last murder. My hope had died. Struck down by the understanding that having a soul did not make me a better man. It didn't make me a man at all. Just a freak.

What kind of man was I? What kind of demon? The war for dominance inside me stilled for a moment as both the soul and the demon considered the question. I had come across the country to kill and hurt the very people who had been the catalysts for my change. I blamed them for the return of my soul and the weight of my guilt. I hated them because I had lost everything of myself here in this town. Coming back to Sunnydale was supposed to answer my questions, end my searching for purpose and identity. It was supposed to save me.

Save me.

I didn't even know what that meant. Redemption had been dismissed years before as a fairytale and idle dream. There would be no atonement for a monster like me. I know that Angel believes in redemption, that he fights against himself and all that is evil to earn his deliverance. That was his purpose, his reason for being. Did I want that? Did I want to be redeemed? What kind of man did I want to be?

Gradually the hurricane in my head slows and stops. Words and ideas fall into place, stringing into lucid trains of thought. I have a choice. Having a soul means that I have a choice. I can be the kind of man I want to be. I could be a killer, letting my demon out to play. I could be a softhearted poet, giving the reins to William. Or I could choose neither of them. I could be a good man. It's my choice now.

The hope I lost so long ago flickers, takes hold, and begins to burn. I have been living in the past, struggling to survive the now, praying that there would be no future. In amazement, I realize that I no longer feel like two people trapped in the same body. Demon versus soul. I can't destroy my demon, can't beat him back and into submission. I can't shut out my soul and forget the tenderness, the gentleness, of William. The past is something that I can never change or dismiss, but it does not define me. My past is not what I am, it is not my identity.

Returning to the present, I finally look around and recognize the two room flat that had become my new home. It's bare; the only furniture was what had come with the lease. A bed. A lamp. There was a small table beneath the shuttered window. Except for the clothing hanging in the closet and the laptop on the table there is no indication that anyone lives here. I vaguely remember giving Faith directions.

My limbs are weak as I stand up, one hand against the wall to steady myself. I don't know how much time I have before the Cheshire bitch realizes Faith is still alive and comes to drag me into hell. It doesn't matter anymore. She'll come and it will finally be over. I'll get what I deserve.

This whole crazy world revolves around cause and effect. Push and pull. Walk the edge, toe the line; what goes around comes around and this is my stop. End of the line for Vampire with a Soul Redux. Like most sequels, this one didn't live up to the original. The script was poor, the dialogue contrived, and the hero hadn't been a hero at all. I was no Angel. For the first time in more than a hundred years, I wish I could be. Weight lifts from my shoulders as I move through the apartment, savoring my newfound peace. I'm facing the music, owning up to what I have done and what I deserve. I am not weak, not anymore.

I warm a glass of pig blood and sip it slowly, staring out the window at the brick walls of the neighboring apartments. Each one is a home and a haven for someone else. The place they live, dream, love. Where they cry and escape from their fear. The only place they can close the door and put away the masks that keep them separated from the rest of their species and eternally alone. A shell to keep them safe and secure. Humanity is frightening in its cruelty, savage in its inescapable consequences, and breathtaking in its beauty. I feel it and am in awe. Of the people living each day, getting up and moving on; those who don't allow the misery to destroy them. Life is a driving force, powerful and relentless, that no amount of demons or evil can ever conquer.

Filling another glass with cool water, I return to the bedroom and carefully sit down beside the bed. I don't touch her, afraid of being burnt by her life and the possibility of being attacked.

"Faith." My voice is loud in the silence. "Faith."

Her eyelashes flutter for a moment before they fly open and she's sitting up, moving away from me, tense and ready for a fight. I hold out the glass of water as a peace offering.

"I thought maybe." I try to smile. "Your throat might be sore." The irony almost makes me laugh. My hands made those marks and now I'm trying to ease the damage. She watches me uneasily for a moment before she reaches for the glass, drinking hesitantly. I back away, leaning against the table and trying to avoid the pinpricks of sunlight that slip through the blinds.

She clears her throat, voice hoarse from sleep and injury. "Bastard."

"Yeah." I turn away from her, picking my duster off of the floor and folding it absently. I don't want it anymore. It's not me.

"I only let you live because of Dawn." She informs me, placing the empty glass on the bed and curling her legs against her chest.

"How's that?"

"She doesn't want you dead. Maybe the only person in the whole world who wouldn't be glad to fit you into an ashtray. She cares about you."

"She's like her mum." It's the best compliment I can think of for Dawn. One that I know would please her.

"Why aren't I dead?" Her voice has an edge. I'm still surprised how expressive that voice is. Husky, rich; everything that she is comes across in her words. Half a dozen emotions crowd together, tumbling out over her lips.

"I don't want to kill you." I stare down at my duster for a long moment before I toss in onto the table and move to the closet. Everything black has to go. I can't wear it anymore. It's the color of death and I have seen enough death. She is silent, her dark eyes following my movements intently. "Not anymore. I came here to kill you, true. But I can't. I have enough blood on my hands."

She laughs with disbelief. "You're a vampire. What do you care how many people you kill?"

"Angel cares." I glance over one shoulder to gauge her reaction.

"Angel has a soul." She frowns for a moment, turning her head to look at me askew. "You're not going to give me some bullshit about having a soul, are you? That's impossible."

"Crazy, yes. Impossible, no." I shrug as I pull a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt out off of the shelves. "I'm going to change. You can leave if you want. I'm not going to keep you here."

"Like you could." Her words are arrogant but she makes no move to leave.

Shutting the bathroom door behind me, I shed the dirty black jeans and ripped shirt I'm wearing. I climb into the shower to wash dirt and blood off of my arms. Rabbit blood. Have I been eating rabbits? I can't remember. Sighing, I close my eyes against the stream of hot water, feeling it wash away days worth of insanity and darkness. My mind is almost clear and the madness is fading away.

I've given her enough time to search the entire flat and make half a dozen phone calls. Half of me expects Buffy to be waiting, stake in hand, as I dry off and get dressed. Toweling my hair vigorously, I open the door and see Faith sitting on the bed, arms still holding her legs against her chest. She hasn't moved.

"Are you alright?" I ask, tossing the towel over one shoulder and running my hands through my hair to corral the unruly curls. I add my dirty clothes to the pile of things to leave behind forever. "All I have is blood. You can wear something of mine if you need to change." Her tank top is ripped in several places and there are streaks of mud on the leather pants she's wearing.

"Are you fucking with me?" Her eyes narrow with suspicion. "Tell me the truth. You weren't just a few fries short of a happy meal last night, you were completely out of your mind. Psycho. Wheel's turning, hamster's dead. What the hell is going on?"

"I made a mistake." Four words summed up my existence in a trivial phrase that I find both humbling and appalling.

"Not going to argue with that. Details would be appreciated." In her voice, I can hear frustration and confusion liberally laced with hostility.

Facing her, I try to keep my mind focused long enough to decide what to tell her. Simple is better. "I got my soul back four years ago. Never planned on coming back here until some Big Bad playing dress-up offered to take the bleedin' chip out of my head. The catch? I had to kill someone for it. I said yes. The bint wanted you dead."

"Why?"

"Said you betrayed them. I didn't ask too many questions. Evil little chit spooked the hell out of me." I move back to the closet and pulling out my duffle bag. Everything I own fits in this bag.

"Getting my ass out of this town. I can't kill you. Have to face the music sometime." I glance over my shoulder. "If I stay, I'll be having a nice conversation with a wooden stake or that ball of joy overhead."

"You should die." Bitter. Angry.

"No. I shouldn't." I turn slowly, watching her expression. "I don't deserve death. I deserve something much worse than that." That surprises her. "I'm not running off into the sunset to live happily ever after. I'm going back so that bitch can make good on her threats and damn me to eternal torment. Because I can't kill you. Because I won't." Firm in my conviction, I continue packing, pulling my Timberlands out of the back of the closet and tossing the black motorcycle boots into the pile of my past. "That's the deal I made. That's what I deserve."

"What about Dawn?"

"What about her?" My voice sounds strained in my ears. "She's better off without me."

"Yeah. At least say goodbye this time."

"Without getting up close and personal with a very brassed off Slayer? I don't think so." The laptop goes into the bag and I'm done. My entire life in one duffle bag.

"Spike." She hesitates, doubt ringing in her voice. "Was I dead? I think I was dead."

"Yeah."

"Then you did kill me. Like you were supposed to. Assuming you're not lying and someone out there really wants me dead."

"I'm pretty sure she wanted you six feet under and pushing up daisies, luv. The not ever coming back variety. Although that doesn't mean much in Sunnydale." I slip on my boots and swing the strap of the duffel over my shoulder. "There's covered parking with sewer access behind the building. Don't worry, I won't come back. There's nothing left for me here."

She's fidgeting. For a moment I wonder if she's stalling, waiting for Buffy to show up and kick the door in. "You asked me to save you," she finally blurts out. "Last night. You asked me to save you."

"You did, Faith." I smile and take a few tentative steps toward her. When she doesn't pull away, I continue until I'm close enough to touch her.

"I can't even save myself." There's pain in her voice and I'm struck by the vulnerability in her eyes. "I thought I could fix it if I went to jail. If I was punished for what I did. But I'm still...I..." She stops and looks up at me, searching my face.

Her hair is cool and smooth, curling around my fingers as I push it away from her face, tucking a single lock behind her ear. Warm skin touches my palm and I'm amazed by the raw emotion in her eyes. There is so much in them that I recognize. Pain, fear, desperation. She reminds me of the man I once was, the poet who wanted to be accepted, to be loved. We're on the same road, trapped in the same nightmare of finding something to live for. A reason to be.

"Help me." The shame in her voice makes me wonder if she's ever asked anyone for help.

"You have to keep looking." I pull my hand away and start toward the exit that leads to the central courtyard, kept relatively safe by a row of trees. Her voice stops me in the doorway.

"Looking for what?"

I glance back at her once, trying to memorize the fall of her hair and the curve of her face. A smile spreads across my face. "Faith."

* * *

There was nothing but silence left in the apartment. Faith stayed curled up on the bed for a long time, thinking and staring at the bare walls. She should have hated him, should have driven a stake through his black heart. After all, he had killed her. She hadn't even seen him coming until he leapt from the bushes, tackling her and pushing her under the water's surface. At first she'd fought him, her instinct for survival overriding everything else. But there had been a moment of peace and acceptance. Knowing it was over. The harshness of the world and her own pain would finally be gone. She would be free. She'd stopped fighting back and just let it happen. She'd wanted it to happen.

Her throat ached and her sinuses were still burning from the water that had filled her nose and mouth. The world had come crashing back. Disoriented, she'd been shocked to find herself wrapped tightly in her murderer's arms as he sobbed. _Save me_. His voice echoed in her head, broken and altogether too human. Why hadn't she staked him? Because she knew what it was like to be broken.

Slowly uncurling, she eased herself off of the bed and looked around. The duster was crumpled on the table. It was still new and heady with the scent of leather. Picking it up carefully, she slipped her arms through the sleeves and looked down. It fell to her ankles, draping from her shoulders like a cape. Smiling, she moved through the apartment, noticing that there were no signs of life except for the clothes he left in a pile on the bedroom floor. All black.

Sunlight poured through the front door. Stepping out into the day, she blinked against the brightness and took a deep, fortifying breath. The complex was in the older part of town, only a few blocks away from Buffy's house. She'd be furious to know he had been this close the entire time. Why the hell did a vampire have an apartment anyway?

Lost in thought, Faith made her way slowly through the streets of Sunnydale. She wasn't sure if she should lie to the Scoobies. Tell them that Spike was blowing in the wind right now. Her stomach rumbled hungrily and she wished she had worn a watch.

As she started across the backyard of the Summers residence, she felt older. Death aged you. Maybe that was why Buffy seemed to be twenty-five going on fifty. She'd done this twice. Did it get easier? Faith didn't want to find out.

Quietly, she let herself in the back door and saw that the kitchen was empty. Her first priority was finding the gang and letting them know she was back among the living. With Spike gone, she didn't have to stay in Sunnydale anymore. She could go wherever she wanted. In California at least. Damn parole officers. Buffy's voice wafted out from the direction of the living room. Probably formulating attack plans. All work and no play. Faith moved through the house silently, standing in the doorway and waiting to be noticed. The gang was all there, crowded around a map of Sunnydale while Willow sprinkled some sort of powder over the paper.

"Are you sure dead bodies show up with locator spells?" Xander sounded tired. "Maybe we should just head out there and look. You said you were checking the forest by the docks."

"And if he dumped her in the ocean? She could be halfway down the coast by now." Buffy's answer was terse. Full battle mode.

"There. It's done." Willow squinted at the map and sighed. "But I don't think it worked."

"Why not?"

"Because that dot should be Faith's body. And it's here." She pointed at the map. "That's your house, Buffy."

"Oh. Is there something else we could try? Another spell?"

"You could turn around." Faith smiled, enjoying the looks of shock on their faces. "Since I happen to be standing right here. Not polite to talk about people in front of them, you know." They were too stunned to respond, taking in the bruises on her face and mud covering her clothes. It took them another moment to place the long leather jacket she was wearing.

Dawn was the first one to break the silence, moving forward and giving her a quick hug. "Are you alright? Giles said another Slayer was called. He must have been wrong."

"Nope. Pulled a Buffy." Faith grinned. "This is Faith version two-point-oh. Back from the dead for a few nights only." She felt more relaxed than she had in a long time. "Come on guys, don't look so happy to see me."

Willow visibly shook herself out of shock and blinked a few times, rubbing her eyes just in case. "What happened? Can I get you anything? Water? Food? Is that Spike's jacket?" The familiar rambling was comforting.

"Yeah. He left it behind." Faith shrugged the leather off of her shoulders. "Seemed like such a waste. It's brand new." She handed it to Dawn, noticing the grateful look in the girl's eyes. "Thought you might want it."

"She doesn't." Buffy glared at Dawn.

"I do." Dawn folded the duster over her arms. "I don't care if he did go all psycho killer. I'm not going to pretend I don't care just because that's what you do."

"I'm not pretending."

"Whatever. You still have his old jacket in a box in the back of your closet." Dawn tossed her hair over her shoulder and sat down, holding the leather firmly against her. "It's only fair that I get this one."

"Fine. Just tell me he's good and dusty this time. Faith?"

"Sorry, B. No can do. I'm the only one who died." Faith pulled a leaf from her hair, impulsively deciding against a lie.

"About that?" Xander almost raised his hand. "How is it that you're all with the breathing and walking around again?"

"That crazy ass vampire brought me back. After he drowned me. Can I take you up on that offer of food, Will? All Spike had was blood." Faith smiled gratefully as Willow headed off toward the kitchen. Sitting down carefully, she began to examine the tiny cuts and bruises on her arms. Their tumble down the beach had done more damage than she'd previously thought.

"Am I the only one who's a little confused? Spike killed you. Spike saved you. Spike took you home?"

"Spike killed me. Spike saved me. I took Spike home. Poor guy was completely round the bend. Full stop, train derailed. One way ticket to Crazyville." Faith made a few finger circles around her ear and pulled a crazy face for emphasis. "But he's gone now. Left town."

"For how long?" Buffy's voice was hard. "Until he decides to kill you for good?"

"I don't think he'll come back."

"Why didn't you kill him? It sounds like you had plenty of chances. Did you sleep with him instead?"

"Chill, B. Vampires don't get me hot. That's your department."

Willow hurried back into the room, handing Faith a plate with a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. "I made you a sandwich. I hope that's okay."

"Awesome, Will. You totally rock."

"Faith was just explaining why William the Bloody is still among the undead." Buffy crossed her arms over her chest, scowling fiercely.

"I did it for Dawn," Faith answered simply. Buffy's head snapped to the side, eyes wide as she searched her sister's face for an answer.

"Dawn...what is she talking about?"

"I might have said that I didn't want him dead." Dawn looked down at her hands. "And he saved my life, Buffy. A week ago. In the tunnels, there was a vampire and he saved me. He seemed so lost Buffy. Like he didn't really know what was going on-"

"Wait. Just wait." Buffy shook her head in disbelief. "You saw him? Why didn't you tell me? And what were you doing in the tunnels? Alone? You are so grounded."

"You can't ground me anymore. Mom." Dawn rolled her eyes.

"Fine. I'll just break a few bones."

"I don't believe this!" Buffy exploded. "He comes back to town after telling the whole world he's going to kill both of us. He almost kills me and he manages to drown you. And you're all sitting here thinking it's just fine that he's still out there! Have you all lost your minds?" She turned back to Faith. "I know that doing the right thing really isn't important to you but is it too much to ask that you kill one vampire? You're a Slayer. A Vampire Slayer. Sacred calling...ring any bells?"

Faith shrugged. "I know something else that's important to you, B. Having a soul."

"And?"

"Spike has a soul now. He told me."

"And you believed him? You're even more stupid than I thought you were."

"You didn't see him." Faith finished off her sandwich calmly. Dying made little things like Buffy temper tantrums less important.

"This is insane!" Buffy stormed out of the living room and stomped up the stairs. The slam of her bedroom door shook the pictures hanging on the walls, echoing in the silence left behind.

"I've got to agree with Buffy. How do you know he wasn't lying?" Xander asked. "I mean, he is...evil. And evil tends to lie."

"Just a vibe, I guess. Besides, we have bigger fish to fry. Spike was just the hitman. Told me some woman sent him after me." Faith set her plate and empty glass on the coffee table carefully. "But the whole debriefing thing is going to have to wait until I have a shower. I've still got sand where the sun don't shine."

"I'll call Giles. Let him know you're alive." Willow moved toward the phone.

Faith reached out to stop her. "Not yet. I think...I think that maybe it's better if they think I'm dead."

"Why?"

"I'm not exactly the golden child, Will. One less thing for the Council to worry about. No more rogue Slayer to sully their institution."

"But Faith-"

"It's a clean slate for me," Faith cut her off. "A fresh start. I can have a new life without them breathing down my neck and waiting for me to fuck up. Please. Just don't."

Willow hesitated, finally nodding her head and sitting back down. "Alright. I understand. Does that mean you're going to leave?"

"Haven't thought that far. I'm still kind of weirded out by the whole being dead thing. And I hope y'all don't think I'm being rude, but I've gotta have that shower now." She headed up the stairs, leaving them to talk as they may about Spike and her and what to do now.

"Do you think he really has a soul?" Dawn whispered, clutching the duster hopefully.

"I don't know, Dawnie." Willow glanced at Xander. "But if someone sent him to kill Faith, we have to find out who and why."

"Does this mean there are three Slayers now?"

"I guess," Willow answered. "Giles did say another Slayer had been called. Just like that time with Buffy."

"They really should fix that loophole." Xander moved to the couch and sat down beside Willow. "Or just set up an assembly line and make lots of them. A whole army of Slayers. All it takes is a little bit of death, CPR, and voila!"

"Will she be coming here?"

"Probably. It's still the Hellmouth. Although with Buffy here, Sunnydale doesn't really need another Slayer."

"Maybe Buffy can retire now. You know, go back to school and stuff," Dawn suggested thoughtfully. She frowned as a new thought crossed her mind, "What should we tell Giles about Spike?"

"If we tell him that he's still undead the Council will probably try to hunt him down." Willow blew a stray lock of hair out of her face, resting her chin on her hand as she considered their options. "Of course, Buffy may do that herself."

"We should probably tell him."

"What about the soul?"

Xander shook his head. "If he has a soul. Big if. We don't know if he was telling the truth. Buffy's right. We can't trust him anymore."

"Then we have to find out. If he has a soul." Dawn put on her best resolve face. "There has to be a way. A spell or something."

Willow eyed the black leather in Dawn's lap. "There might be. I think I know where to look. I'll need something that belonged to him."

"His jacket." Dawn held up the duster.

"That should work. And if he was telling the truth about the soul then he was probably telling the truth about someone sending him to kill Faith."

"Research?" Xander grinned. "I'll go for donuts. Can't read old musty volumes without sugary goodness, can we?"

"I'll call Giles." Willow checked her watch. "It's only two in the morning there. Maybe I won't call him. It can wait until morning. Or evening." She shrugged and abandoned the phone call idea, instead digging out the laptop and plugging it in. "I've been working on a database of spells with some of the wiccans on campus and a few from covens across the country. I'm sure someone will have an idea or two."

"Should I get Buffy?" Xander hesitated, halfway out of the room.

"Let her cool off, Xan," Dawn advised. "She's having a hard time with the whole Spike kicking her ass episode."

"Does she really have his old duster in her closet?"

"I found it a couple of years ago when I was borrowing some shoes."

Willow glanced up from the computer screen. "Why'd she keep it?"

"I think it was because it reminded her of him." Dawn stroked the leather in her lap gently. "She never said anything but I think she missed him. A lot. She was totally pissed at him. And hurt. But I think she still hoped he'd come back some day."

"Guess she got her wish. Sunnydale style. Do you think she'll be okay? She seems to be taking it pretty hard." Willow paused her search to wait for an answer.

"She'll be fine. She's Buffy. Big strong Buffy." Dawn didn't sound convinced.


	22. Loose Ends

Note: I'm tying up some 'loose ends' and putting in some closure for a few characters.  Not a lot of plot.  Wow.  Say that six times fast.  Ended up kinda sad and kinda sweet.  Oh, and this is the most you're going to see of Angel for a while.

I'm heading out of town for a few days so I'm putting up the three chapters I have finished and beta-d.  

Loose Ends – 

            Bringing Willow and Xander on patrol was something that Buffy had always hated.   She hadn't had to ask for a very long time.  As the vampire she was fighting disappeared in a cloud of dust complements of Xander's crossbow, Buffy silently thanked whatever higher power or fate had given her friends.  Unfortunately, patrol was the only Scooby bonding time she got after working around Willow's schoolwork and Xander's new contracts.  She was determined to make up for the last three years of sticking her head in the sand.  She was pretty much in the Land of How? What? How? when it came to being a better person, a good person.  But she was trying.  That had to count for something.

            "Thanks, Xan." She panted, catching her breath.

            "Why didn't you tell us they were having vampapalooza in Sunnydale?" Xander dropped down from the top of the crypt where he had been getting in his sniper practice.  "How long has it been this bad?"

            "Only seven vamps.  Not that bad."

            "You mean it's been worse.  You still should have told us."

            "It's getting bad everywhere." Buffy picked up her stake and headed toward the other side of the cemetery to meet Willow.  "Giles says it's part of this whole dimensional flooding or surging, whatever.  The bright side is that we get to see all these cool demons who are supposed to be extinct."

            "How is that bright?  In the oncoming train sense?"

            "You're right." Buffy sighed.  "Willow seemed excited."

            "That's because she's a research lovin' fool.  And the purple one had claws you grind up into a powder for a spell she's been wanting to try."

            "Hey guys." Willow smiled cheerfully as she met them, shouldering her crossbow.  The plastic bag in her hand looked suspiciously like it was spattered with demon blood.  Good old Willow, Buffy thought, never the squeamish one.  Well, not for a long time anyway.

            "Will?"

            "I only took the fingers."

            "Not actually making us feel better."  Xander wrinkled his nose.

            "I'll probably never get these ingredients again, Xander."

            "You may never get a chance to use them if we don't find a way to stop the two way street between here and the demon Hall of Extinction."

            "I know." Willow sighed.  "We've still got a lot of books to go through."  She glanced at Buffy.  "How's Dawn?"

            "Scared." Buffy tried to smile.  "She's trying to be tough."

            "More nosebleeds?"

            "Yeah.  And the headaches are getting worse." The Slayer rubbed her arms against a chill.  "Sometimes she shakes so hard she can barely talk.  I don't want to tie her down but I'm afraid she'll hurt herself."

            "I'm sure she'll understand.  If you have to."

            "Maybe."

            "We'll find something, Buff." Xander put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick hug.  "The big brains are working night and day."

            "I know.  I just don't think they're looking past killing Spike."

            "They have a point." Xander raised his hand to cut off her protest.  "Just being the devil's advocate.  Someone has to.  I don't know why that someone always has to be me but I never shy away from the call of duty.  Usually I duck and cover."

            "Then you can face the wrath of Dawn when we tell her that we've decided to kill Spike."

            "She'd get over it."

            "Xander!" Willow glared at him.

            "She would.  Maybe she wouldn't talk to us for a while.  A few years.  But at least she'd still be alive to be mad at us."

            "Let's go home."  Buffy gave them a tired smile.  "I don't want to leave Dawn alone too long."  They walked silently for the rest of the patrol route, concentrating on finding vampires and demons they could kill.

              "Buff." Willow's hand stopped Buffy as they neared the entrance to the cemetery.  "Vamps.  Lots of them."  She held out the crystal she wore around her neck.  Enchanted to glow in the presence of the undead, it was shining brightly in her hand.

            "Where?"

            "Getting closer."

            Buffy heard the growling first.  It was always the arrogant ones who announced themselves.  That was good.  It usually led to mistakes.  She shifted her grip on the stake and nodded to her friends before calling out to the unseen and soon to be dusty fiends.  "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

            "Slayer." The vamp who stepped out of the shadows must have been the leader.

            "No points for originality."  Buffy told him dryly.  "And really not much of an entrance.  Next time try a nice aria."

            "I will drink of your blood."

            "I hate the chatty ones." She rolled her eyes and tapped one foot impatiently.  "Where are the rest of your flunkies?"

            "My minions await my command."

            "So command already."

             Xander pivoted as more vampires appeared, closing them into a circle.  "This might be just another walk through the bone yard for you, Buff…and I hate to be the Princess Leia here."

            "You don't have enough hair."  Buffy caught the look and raised her hands.  "Sorry."

            "As I was saying…I have a bad feeling about this."  He grinned over his shoulder and lifted up the crossbow.  "I've always wanted to say that."

            "Good for you." Willow nervously eyed the vampires closing in around her.  "I can probably take three or four."

            "Leaves two for Xander and five for me."

            "Hey!  I can do three.  Just because superwicca can shoot black lightning and I'm stuck with a lousy crossbow."

            "Silence!" The leader thundered angrily.  "I tire of your pathetic whining.  You are nothing compared to my greatness.  I will destroy you and make this place my throne."

            "Or not." A male voice startled Buffy.  A very familiar male voice.  

            "Angel?" She watched him step out from behind one of the crypts, a tall brunette at his side.  "Cordelia?"

            "Hey guys." Cordelia gave them a stiff smile.  

            Most Pompous Leader growled before turning to his minions.  "Kill them.  Kill them all."

            Buffy kicked out at the closest minion and sent him crashing into a headstone.  Another grabbed her arm, trying to pull her off balance.  Using him as leverage, she kicked his buddy in the head before tossing him onto the ground.  A quick jab and he was blending into the lawn.  Tombstone boy was back on his feet and swinging, she dodged, catching his arm and pulling him onto her stake.  Glancing around quickly, she saw that Willow had set two of the minions on fire and Xander was happily goading another into doing something stupid.  Angel was fighting two of the vamps, toying with them and trading barbs.  One of the demons was a dark blur as he ran the opposite direction and away from a certain staking.

            Seeing the idiotic Master wannabe, Buffy started through the melee to tell him what she thought of his boring speeches.  Definitely worse than Giles and his Sacred Duty monologues.  She frowned, tensing to run as the Master grabbed hold of Cordelia and opened his mouth.  The former cheerleader watched him calmly and began to glow.  Glow?  Why was Cordelia glowing?  Master vampire pulled away from her, screaming as his body dissolved into flame and ash.

            "It's pretty cool." Cordelia shrugged when she saw Buffy's surprised expression.  "Only works up close."

            "What?  How?"

            "Part demon now." Her smile was tight and controlled.  "Long story."

            "I bet it is." Buffy turned back, seeing the rest of the vamps dissolve into dust.  "What are you guys doing here?  Not that I'm unhappy to see you."

            "Cordy had a vision." Angel brushed off his jacket.  "Said you needed help."

            "You have visions?"

            "It's a thing.  Also long."

            "Oh.  Well.  Great.  You in town long?" Buffy watched Willow help Xander up and motioned for them to come over.

            "Just long enough to find Spike and tell him that there's no way I'm working with him.  I don't care what the PTB think, I'm not going to waste my time listening to that stupid accent of his."  Cordelia paused and gave Angel a pointed look.  "Although he does have an ounce of fashion sense, which is more than I can say for Mr. Tall, Dark, and Color Inhibited." 

            Willow waved.  "Hey Cordy, hey Angel."

            Xander smiled blandly, sticking his hands into his pockets.  "To what do we owe this dubious pleasure?"

            "Spike.  Where is he?"

            "Whoa.  Time out." Buffy held out her hands.  "Why are you looking for Spike?  And what is PTB?  And a general what the hell for good measure."

            "How about we do this somewhere else?" Willow suggested.  "It's late.  We should check on Dawn.  And Giles is here too."

            "Good idea.  My house." Buffy kept the pace brisk as they headed back to Revello Drive.  All she needed was for Riley to show up and her week would be a shoo-in for the top slot of the Buffy Summers World of Weird.  Of course, now that she'd thought of it, it was bound to happen.  Damn.  Being a Slayer meant having psycho ex-boyfriends who refused to just go away and never come back like normal psycho ex-boyfriends.  Of course, two of her exes were immortal.  That probably had something to do with it.

            "Casa Summers.  Come on in." Buffy waved the group into the house.  "Ignore the books.  And the two stuffy English guys.  They're just for decoration, they don't actually do anything."

            "Angel." Giles looked up from his book.  "This is…a surprise."

            "We're here to help." Angel offered.

            "We're here to give the bleached Angel imitation a piece of my mind." Cordelia cleared herself a place on the sofa and sat down.  "Where is he so I can get this over with and go home?"

            Angel smiled apologetically.  "She doesn't travel well."

            "In a convertible that's older than I am.  With a vampire.  Who would under those circumstances?"

            "Nice to see you're the same old Cordelia we know and love." Xander retreated into the kitchen.

            "Angel!  Cordy!" Fred hurried into the living room, stirring her coffee carefully.  "I didn't know you were coming.  Did you call?"

            "Cordy had a vision."

            "That's great!" Fred settled back into her chair.  "Maybe it was just a dry spell.  Giving you time off or something."

            "It's because of Spike."

            "Again with the mentioning of Spike." Buff interrupted.  "What's going on?"

            "There's a prophecy.  A vampire with a soul." Angel began.

            "That would be Angel." Cordelia was inspecting her nails.

            "A Champion for the Powers.  Cordelia gets the visions, we help people.  Pretty standard actually."

            "In return, Angel gets to be human again. To shanshu.  Except that now, there are two vampires with souls and the visions are all hit and miss.  Mostly miss.  I refuse to work with Spike."

            "Human?" Buffy blinked.

            "According to the prophecy.  Wesley translated it."

            "Oh." 

            Silence.  What was she supposed to say?  What could anyone say? Maybe Spike had messed everything up.  Angel was going to be human?  When had that happened?  Probably when she was dead.  Close your eyes for a few months and the whole world decided to rearrange itself.  Oh, for the innocent and joyous days of math tests and chemistry labs.

            "I do believe," Giles took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose.  "That we are all going to rue the day Spike was sired."

            Fred took a sip of her coffee.  "He's done a lot more than just mess up the prophecy."

            "Are you drinking coffee, Fred?" Cordelia frowned.

            "Decaf." Fred assured her.  "But all that weird stuff that we've been noticing, the increased demon activity, and the strange behavior."

            "Yes?"

            "It's because of Spike too.  Because he got his soul back.  And then he didn't kill Faith.  Or he did kill her but he brought her back and he didn't kill the new Slayer either."

            "He killed Faith?" A low growl began in Angel's chest.

            "Oh please." Buffy sat down and rubbed her temples.  "Don't go all guard dog on us.  She perfectly safe with Spike unless she's into blood sports."

            "Faith and Spike have a thing now." Willow explained.

            "What?" Angel finally sat down.  "His soul?"

            "Not a curse.  Won it back fair and square all by his lonesome.  Hence the wacky dimension problems." Fred nodded toward the Head Watcher.  "This is Mr. Iverson.  He can explain the whole thing to you much better than I can."       

            "Nonsense, Miss Burkle, your grasp of dimensional physics is extraordinary.  I don't suppose you would ever consider working for the Council?" Iverson had dark circles under his eyes and he'd removed his tie at some point during the evening.

            "Back to the soulness of Spike." Cordelia raised her hand.  "Could we focus?"

            "Oh yes.  Spike regained his soul deliberately.  I'm afraid it caused quite a backlash in the supernatural world.  We believe," he smiled at Fred.  "That it destabilized the energy base of the dimensional walls.  They are beginning to crumble and the dimensions are merging.  In a nutshell."

            "And Dawn is resonating." Buffy sighed.  "Somehow she's linked to the whole vibraty thing."

            "There is a simple solution." Giles cast Buffy a sour look.  "Spike's death would most likely nullify the effects and reverse the damage."

            "And this is a hard decision how?" Cordelia asked.

            "I'm afraid that Spike and Faith have left town." Giles kept polishing.

            "I told them to get out." Buffy admitted.

            "Why?  Didn't you know what was happening?"

            "I knew.  That's why I told him to leave."

            "Buffy?" Angel frowned.

            "Don't bother.  I've heard it all.  From everyone."  Buffy got to her feet.  "He's gone.  We'll find something else.  I'm going to check on Dawn."  She left them badgering Giles and the others with questions.  Was something wrong with Buffy?  What was going on?  When had Spike left?  Sighing as she rounded the corner and headed toward Dawn's bedroom door, she wondered if she'd done the right thing.  Her cavalier attitude toward the end of the world had felt good, relaxed.  As the situation worsened, she had to consider that she had merely traded in one form of denial for another.  An old death wish for a new one.  She knocked softly before opening the door.  Dawn was curled up on the bed, hugging a ragged teddy bear to her chest.     

            "Hey." Sitting down, Buffy brushed Dawn's hair away from her face gently.  "How's my favorite sister?"

            "Feeling like I've been through one of those push toys.  You know, with the little plastic balls that bounce all over and sound like popcorn." Dawn pulled the blanket up to her chin and managed a thin smile.  The Kleenex box next to her bed was half empty, blood stained tissues filling the garbage can.

            "Any more?"

            "One.  While you were on patrol."

            "It's gonna be okay, Dawnie.  We'll find something." Buffy kissed her forehead.

            "Buffy?"

            "Yeah?"

            "I don't want you to tell me that if you're just trying to make me feel better.  I need to know the truth."

            "I am telling you the truth."

            "I can feel it." Dawn smiled sadly.  "I can feel the world ripping apart.  Shaking into pieces.  When I'm shaking, I can see it.  Watch it tearing."

            "We'll find a way.  I promise."

            "Don't tell Spike.  About me."

            "Dawn."

            "He'll do it." Dawn's eyes glistened with tears.  "If he thought it would save me, he'd do it.  And we don't know for sure that it would work and then he would…and it would be my fault."

            "I know." Buffy caressed her cheek lightly and smiled.  "You always did have him wrapped around your finger.  Big Bad Pushover."

            "Don't tell him."

            "I won't.  Just get some rest."  Buffy moved back to the doorway.  "Call if you need anything.  I'll be close."

            "Thanks."

            "I love you, Dawn."

            "Love you too, sis."

            Buffy closed the door softly and crept back down the stairs.  She avoided the living room purposefully and found Xander sitting in the kitchen.  Fixing herself a cup of tea, she watched him stare at the newspaper without seeing it.  Tea was soothing.  Tea reminded her of her mother.  

            "Xan?" 

            "Hey Buff.  How's the Dawnster?"

            "Right as rain." Buffy smiled into her mug as she dunked the tea bag.

            "Liar."

            "Yeah.  But you love me anyway."

            "Also true."

            "Hard seeing them.  Isn't it?" Buffy sat down beside him.  "Even if it was years and years ago.  Somehow it's never easy.  Easier."

            "But not easy."  He smiled.  "At the same time, it's simple.  Looking back, we were young and crazy.  Did we even know what love was back then?"

            "Different type of love maybe."

            "It was so exciting.  Like a wild amusement park ride.  With the screaming and the arm waving and cotton candy."

            "Minus the whiny children and heatstroke."

            "Exactly."

            "Very Days of Our Lives."

            "Or Passions…this is the Hellmouth after all."

            "And Passions is more fitting actually.  With the whole Spike thing." Buffy stared down at her mug.  She didn't want to choose between Dawn and Spike.  She refused to choose between them.  

            "So I'm sitting here, wondering why I scampered into the kitchen like a bunny rabbit.  Forgive me Anya." He looked upwards in supplication.  "And I don't know the answer.  Maybe I was afraid that being around her would still hurt.  Maybe I was afraid it wouldn't."

            "Introspective Xander?"

            "Better than Running in Fear Xander." He grinned.  "What about you, Buff?  How does it feel seeing soulboy the first again?"

            "It's…it's kind of nice." Buffy shrugged.  "He's safe.  Nice, safe, predictable Angel.  Like Riley.  Always there when you need him.  Except when he's not." She frowned and shook away the confusing thoughts she'd stumbled into.  "But you know where I was headed before that derailed, right?"

            "Yeah.  I get it." Xander nodded.  "Old familiar pain is always better than new and unfamiliar pain."

            "Much so.  Angel and I are so dead in the water that it would be impossible to be hurt by him again."

            "Buff?"

            "Xan."

            "Whatever you decide.  With Dawn and Spike.  You'll do the right thing." He took her hand gently.  "I know you will."

            "I'm the Slayer."

            "You're Buffy Summers." He stood up with a deep breath.  "And now I am going to gather up my meager courage and face the dreaded Cordelia demon."

            "Better take some weapons.  And don't get too close to her if she starts doing the glowy thing."

            "Yeah." With a lopsided grin, he headed toward the doorway.  

Buffy smiled as he disappeared around the corner.  Nostalgically, she headed out to the back porch with her tea to gaze at the stars and remember the times she'd stood there with Spike.  Or sat on the top step and let him comfort her.  It seemed so strange.  Comfort from a demon.  But Spike had always been just that.  Comforting in his strength and his conviction.  His sheer tenacity had grounded her even she had hated him.  Seeing Angel again brought the striking differences between the two vampires into focus.  Mostly, she realized that she didn't know either of them as well as she or anyone else had assumed.  It had been years since she had spent time with them, since she had known what books Angel was reading or how many kittens Spike owed in poker.  Did Angel still draw?  Did Spike still like marshmallows in his cocoa?  Had she ever really known them at all?

            Usually, Buffy and deep thoughts were unmixy things.  Undead and sunlight type of unmixy, doomed to combust and leave scorch marks on her psyche.  With a heavy sigh, she eased down onto the top step and cupped the warm mug with her hands, breathing in the sweetly scented steam.  Years had passed since she had last dragged these particular memories kicking and screaming to the surface.  Repression was safer and easier than trying to make sense of life.  There was always something more important to worry about.  Demons, money, school.  Better to sweep the dark thoughts under the rug and pretend that they didn't matter.  But there they were, waiting for her to find them again. 

Her relationship with Angel had been meteoric.  Epic, Romeo and Juliet, terrifying beyond all reason.  Stronger than anything she had felt before but ultimately shallow.  And doomed to crash, burning away through the atmosphere of the real world.  The relationship with Spike had been just as hopeless for completely different reasons.  It had been dark, violent.  Two people who loved and hated just enough to destroy each other.  Their passion had been no less real than what she had with Angel.  Just different.  Less innocent.  She felt much older than twenty-five.  It wasn't the years, it was the mileage.  The dust and blood of each night taking its toll on her.  Maybe the real reason Slayers didn't live very long was that they were too tired to keep going.  Too tired to hold on to the moral compass that had kept them firmly believing that they were right.  That kept them from killing human beings.  She shook those thoughts away.  Being the Slayer meant making the tough decisions.  Killing Ethan had been one of them.

"This seat taken?" Angel's voice was soft.

            "Pull up a plank." Buffy motioned toward the step as she sat down, sipping her tea.  

            "How have you been?"

            "Not bad." Buffy glanced over at him, still reigning in the runaway thoughts of the past.  "Between Faith getting killed, getting my ass kicked by Spike…which was all sorts of embarrassing, by the way.  Then getting shot and tied up by the new Slayer.  And the Council?  Being way too nice to not be planning our gruesome deaths."

            "The Slayer tied you up?"

            "She was supposed to kill us.  The old Head Watcher wasn't big on the forgiving and forgetting.  Ethan Rayne saved us."

            "Giles' old friend?"

            "One and the same.  That turned out to be a trap.  Again.   I chained Spike up in the basement and Faith saved us.  I sent Cara home.  No one knows where she is."

            "Cara?"

            "New Slayer."

            "And Ethan?"

            "Back in the hands of the criminal justice system." She glanced away.  She didn't have to tell him that Ethan was actually pushing up daisies.  At least the flowerbed would have some good blooms for summer.  How things changed.  How she had changed.  Maybe that was why Angel and Spike seemed like strangers.  She had changed.  It didn't seem likely that she would ever feel comfortable telling Angel the truth about Ethan.  Not like Faith, who Buffy knew would understand and wouldn't judge.  Angel wouldn't judge her, he just wouldn't understand.  "Other than that, not much has changed since I talked to you last.  A year ago?"  Not exactly a lie.  Did he really need to know just how much she'd seen and done?  

            "Dawn's graduation." Angel nodded.

            "How's L.A.?"

            "Gunn and Gwen are the same.  Lorne's got a new club.  Wesley's seeing someone."

            "I heard.  Cordy?"

            Angel sighed, "No progress.  I can't convince her that Connor's death wasn't her fault."

            "Still wigs me out.  You having a son." Buffy set her mug down on the porch between them.  "I'm sorry about what happened.  I know he would have come around eventually.  You were a good father."

            "Maybe." He looked up at the stars for a moment before turning back to her.  "About Spike."

            "I really don't know where he is."

            "I believe you." Angel watched her closely.  "Do you love him?"

            Buffy turned her gaze to the lawn, "I did.  For a long time."  She shrugged, not wanting to dig up past uglies with him.  That reminded her of Spike and she smiled.  "What can I say?  Vampire fetish."  As destructive and ill fated as it was.   

            "When?"

            "After Willow brought me back, we had a thing." She curled her arms around her knees.  "We hurt each other.  He left."  There wasn't any need to go into the details.  They simply didn't matter anymore.  

            "That's," He paused and smiled at her,  "Disturbing."

            "And you having a son with Darla isn't?"

            "I could probably think of worse."

            "Like what?"

            "Cordelia having sex with Connor."

            "Ewww!"

            "Yeah." He stared out into the night.  "There was this Beast and the rain of fire.  It turned out to be part of an evil plot."

            "What part of our lives isn't an evil plot?"

            "So Spike and Faith?"

            "Yep." Buffy picked at her pant cuff.  "How's that for the train wreck no one saw coming?  Ethan tortured her, Spike found her.  Some trauma bonding and a few Kodac moments later, they're inseparable.  I think he'd do anything for her."

            "He always was a bit of a den mother.  With Dru."

            "Be glad you didn't see her.  It made me sick." Buffy shuddered at the memory.  "What he did to her would have ruined some people.  It just made her stronger."  

            "She's tough."

            "Yeah."  Buffy smiled.  "Angel?  I need to ask you a favor."

            "What do you need?"

            "It's Dawn." She took a deep breath.  "She's getting worse.  Fred thinks it might help if she were somewhere away from the Hellmouth.  Lessen the influence.  Maybe."

            "Where would you go?"

            "I don't know.  But I can't leave the Hellmouth unprotected." She picked up her mug and turned it over in her hands.  "Could you, I mean, is there any way you could get away from L.A.?"

            "Just give us a call.  Cordy and I will do it." He patted her shoulder gently.  

            "Thanks.  I'd feel better if I knew someone was here."  They sat in silence, watching the shadows dance in the breeze.

            "Buffy."

            "Spare me the save the world, make the hard decisions, be the Slayer talk.  I know how to make those decisions.  It's all I do."

            "I want you to be happy.  That's all I ever wanted for you."

            "I'd say the same for you but we both know how that leads to badness." She was surprised when he smiled.

            "Just thinking."  He leaned back on his hands.  "Maybe the person who should be making this decision is Spike."

            "How can I ask him to do that Angel?  After what he's done, what he's been through.  He deserves a chance to be happy."

            "Maybe he doesn't have to die." Angel examined a crack in the wood thoughtfully.

            "What do you mean?"

            "Maybe he just has to give up his soul."

            Buffy stared at the mug in her hands.  She hadn't thought of that.  Had the Watcher's Council thought of that?  They seemed convinced that only Spike's death would solve the problem.  Would it be so terrible to have a non-souled Spike?  Dawn was right, he had always been different.  Could she let him live without a soul and without a chip?  What would stop him from feeding? Was it fair to ask him to give up his soul?  That was potential migraine territory.  "He's not cursed.  How would he get rid of it?"

            "There are ways.  Shamans, soul-eaters.  Wesley could help you find something."

            "I suppose."

            "It might save Dawn."

            "It might." Buffy sighed.  "I'm tired, Angel.  I'll talk to Giles about it tomorrow."

            "Let me know if you need anything."

            "I will."  This was the Angel she knew.  Always doing the right thing, always trying to help.  Some things didn't change.  She smiled, "I guess Spike was wrong about something after all."

            "What?"

            "We can be friends."

_            "Hey." Xander took a seat on the porch bench next to Cordelia.  "Everyone else is pretending to research.  Are you all right?"_

_            "And you care since when?" There was no bite in her voice, just the barest hint of the old venom._

_            "I always cared." He watched a car drive past, following the tail lights as it turned the corner because there was nothing else to look at.  Except Cordelia.  She was a stranger to him.  Cold, aloof.  It reminded him of Buffy after the battle with the First. When she had locked herself away to grieve and mourn, blocking out friends and family because she didn't want to burden them with her suffering.  _

_            "Angel must be really desperate if he sent you out here to talk to me." She crossed her arms tightly and stared ahead._

_            "He didn't.  Just wanted to talk.  You know, exchange nouns and adjectives.  Maybe a verb or two."_

_            "There's nothing to talk about."_

_            "That makes having a conversation a little difficult.  But I'm sure we can figure it out." He leaned forward, tapping his fingers together lightly.  "How's Wesley doing?"_

_            "Fine." She shrugged.  "He's got this new girl.  It won't last.  They're totally incompatible.  It's like she's not tough enough and too tough at the same time."  Realizing that she was actually talking, she stopped and looked away._

_            "So you two never worked out?"_

_            "Please.  As if." She rolled her eyes.  "I was eighteen.  Young and stupid."_

_            "Yeah.  I've been there, done that.  With a big helping of the stupid."_

_            "Xander." Dark eyes finally turned to him and she smiled sadly.  "I'm sorry.  For the way I treated you."_

_            "Water under the bridge." Xander gave her a half smile.  "I think it's part of growing up.  Doing stupid things, being mean to people who care about you.  Like some sort of initiation into adulthood."_

_            "But you weren't terrible to me.  Most of the time." A glint of humor appeared in her eyes._

_            "I had my share of Social Darwin moments.  Not nearly as spectacular as some but they were there."_

_            "What do you regret most about high school?"_

_            Xander took a deep breath, trying to think back and pick out just one moment.  Just one thing that he would change if he could.  At the same time, he knew that changing even something small could have dramatic consequences.  End of the world kind of repercussions.  Like Spike getting a soul and ending up destroying everything.  No.  He wouldn't change anything.  But he could still regret._

_            "Xander?"_

_            "I lied to Buffy.  Once." He kept staring at his hands.  "I did the right thing.  But it still feels wrong."_

_            "What was it?" There was genuine interest in her voice.  Maybe even empathy._

_            "When Buffy had to send Angel to hell." Xander glanced over at the door.  "I didn't tell her that Willow was going to try to curse him again.  I told her to kick his ass.  The curse worked."_

_            "She would have had to do it regardless."_

_            "Probably.  But I shouldn't have lied to her about it." He sighed.  "I didn't want her to let down her guard because she thought there was a chance."  She was watching him solemnly.  "What do you regret, Queen C?"_

_            "It seems like someone else's life.  I don't even know where to start." Cordelia sighed and rubbed her forehead tiredly.  "I was a bitch and I was proud of it.  It made me who I was.  But I shouldn't have been so mean.  I guess that's it."_

_            "We can't change the past." Xander started slowly.  "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened, if I'd told Buffy the truth.  Maybe Angel wouldn't have gone to hell.  Maybe Buffy wouldn't have run away.  But if Angel hadn't gotten sucked into the Acathla vacuum cleaner, would he have ended up in Los Angeles?  Would he still be among the undead?  Would he have killed Buffy?  Maybe none of us would be here at all."_

_            "You can't dwell on it, Xander.  You can't change what's done."_

_            "Is that compassion I hear?" He grinned at her. _

_            "Just a little.  Don't tell anyone." Her smile faded and she turned back to the street.  "The visions.  A friend gave them to me.  They weren't meant for a human and they were killing me." She shivered.  "The Powers made me part demon so I could still help Angel.  Be his link to them and to the whole destiny trip.  It made me feel like I was helping, like I was a part of something important."_

_            "Fighting the good fight."_

_            "Everything else seems so shallow.  Who really cares about trying to impress guys or the latest Jimmy Choo line when there are demons out there killing innocent people?"  Shifting against the armrest, she pulled her legs up and he noticed she was wearing worn tennis shoes.  Cordelia had certainly changed.  "And then I get this offer to really do something good.  To be a higher being and actually get to see how things work.  Maybe even help Angel get his reward."  She shook her head sadly.  "But that turned out to be a complete bore and a total hoax.  Evil plan to produce this all-powerful being who could brainwash the whole world.  Using me and Angel's son as breeding material.  Did you know Angel had a son?"_

_            "I had heard something to that effect.  Right before my head did a full Exorcist spin and I had to start taking those little blue pills every morning to keep the voices away."_

_            "Yeah.  Twisted.  That's prophecy for you." She was quiet, watching the night.  In the shadows, she looked tired and lost.  "His name was Connor."  He waited for her to continue, sensing that she needed to work through her thoughts.  "He's dead.  And I keep thinking that if I'd just done something different.  If I hadn't said yes.  Hadn't left Angel.  Hadn't done a hundred things.  I could have stopped it."_

_            "Maybe." Xander put his arm around her shoulders hesitantly.  "Maybe not."_

_            "You should have seen Angel's face." Her voice was soft, trembling.  "I know he doesn't blame me.  Because he's a Champion.  But he should."_

_ Xander watched a single tear begin the trek down her cheek, "You can't change what's done." He repeated her words back to her with a soft smile.  "No one's perfect around here.  Especially around here.  As a matter of fact, most of the people here have been evil at some point in time.  Or at least killed someone.  And Willow?  Tried to destroy the world."_

_"I heard." Cordelia sniffed and leaned her head on his shoulder.  "Why is it that the world depends on us?  We've got to be the worst people to be doing this."_

_"Yet the world continues to turn.  And I know that we've also been a part of that.  You've been a part of that."_

_"When did you get all motivational speaker?"_

_"After I lost Anya, I guess." Xander leaned his head against hers, breathing in the scent of her conditioner.  "When I realized that she was really gone and I'd never be able to finally make it down that aisle to be with her."_

_"Do you think any of us will ever be able to have that?  Love, marriage.  Family." There was a catch in her voice and her shoulders began to shake. _

_"I don't know, Cordy.  I don't know." He held her tightly as she cried.   _

            _"Hello?" Giles put the telephone against his ear, trying to balance the coffee in his right hand and the book in his left._

_            "You have a collect call from," The nasal computer voice began._

_            "Faith."_

_            "Do you accept the call?"_

_            "Yes, yes." Giles glanced around quickly.  Buffy was still absent.  Willow and Fred were talking quietly by the coffee table, going over passages and diagrams._

_            "B?" She sounded far away, echoing through the lines._

_            "Faith?"_

_            There was a pause.  "Giles?  That you?"_

_            "Faith.  Yes.  It's Giles.  Are you all right?"_

_            "Five by five.  Just checkin' in.  B wanted to know we were safe."_

_            "Yes.  That's very considerate." He slipped around the corner._

_            "How's Sunnyhell?"_

_            "Busy.  Demon activity has been increasing." He refrained from mentioning Spike's role in the destruction and chaos._

_            "Wicked crazy here too." Her voice was subdued, cautious.  "Everyone okay?"_

_            "Yes." Giles hesitated again.  "Except Dawn.  I'm afraid she's feeling the effects of the changes as well.  Headaches, seizures.  It will, no doubt, get much worse before the end."_

_            "You haven't found anything then."_

_            "No.  I'm afraid not." He squashed the guilt squirming in the back of his mind.  "We have every reason to believe that when the walls collapse, they will take Dawn with them.  If she survives that long."  There was a long pause._

_            "Tell Buffy we're safe." The phone clicked and Giles stared at it for a long moment before returning to the base.  Would Faith tell Spike?  If she did, would Spike react the way Giles hoped?  The vampire had never forgiven himself for not protecting Dawn that night with Glory, blamed himself for Buffy's death.  From what had happened in Sunnydale more recently, it was possible that Spike was still hell-bent on protecting Dawn.  _

_            He returned to the table and his research.  He would look for another solution because he had promised Buffy.  Keep on looking after Iverson and Fred left the next morning because she believed Spike deserved that much.  What was it about the vampire that inspired such loyalty?  First, from Buffy and then from Faith.  It was more surprising from Faith who, to the best of Giles' knowledge, had never trusted or cared for anyone.  But there was a connection.  He had seen it that night in the basement.  The unmistakable intimacy between them.  With a sigh, he took another sip of coffee and grimaced at the bitter liquid.  If they were lucky, Spike would realize that Dawn was in danger and take the right course of action.  If they were lucky. _


	23. Warflower

**Warflower**

A small part of me still expects to see something in the mirror even after all of these years. Without the soul, I had reveled in not seeing it, in what I was and the fact that it made me superior to mankind. They were cattle, sheep, Happy Meals with legs. I was a step up on the food chain. After the soul, it taunted me. I hadn't felt superior any longer. It was replaced by shame and disgust; I was a parasite, a demon, a monster. Now? Now there's just an empty mirror.

The mirror responsible for my trip into the land of self-reflection, no pun intended, was splintered and hanging on the wall of a dirty bathroom the size of a shoebox. As motel rooms went, it probably didn't even make the cut of barely habitable, but it was only a few blocks from the highway and tucked away in a stand of trees. The two-door bucket of rust I had borrowed' in Seattle was several miles away and waiting to be reclaimed. I'd have to pick up another when we left. William had been a little squeamish about lifting the first one from the used car lot in Sunnydale but need overwhelmed conscience. We had to get out of Sunnydale. Now we had to get out of Seattle. Not for me this time. For Faith.

I'm not sure what happened. Staring into the blank mirror, counting the tiles behind my head, I'm trying to retrace our steps for the past three days and put my finger on the exact moment she changed. Figure out what happened. The nightlife was getting crazy, sure; there were demons and vamps by the hundreds, like the whole world had lost its mind. The whispering I heard in Sunnydale was getting louder. Bloody annoying. If I didn't vamp, I couldn't hear it but it was deafening when I did. Buffy said the world was falling apart and after what I'd seen the past few days, I believe her. Is it really my fault? That's the part where I get confused. And then Faith decided to destroy every vampire and demon she could find. Dusk till dawn, she'd thrown herself into a holy crusade to rid the world of evil. I hadn't been able to convince her to leave the city behind. Until a Polgara demon left her bloody and unconscious in a pile of garbage. The memory brings me back to reality.

The blood soaked towel feels like lead in my hands as I wash it out, transfixed by the sight of red swirling down the drain. Faith's blood. Something I never wanted to see again. What had she been thinking? I'm too scared to be angry. Too worried. It's dawn and the first glow of sunlight is beginning to appear behind the seventies reject drapes. She's curled into a ball on the sagging mattress. It creaks loudly as I sit down beside her. Strips of another towel are wrapped around the stab wounds in her arm and thigh. The gash on her forehead will have to heal on its own.

"Hey." Her voice is hoarse and she winces as she rolls onto her back to look up at me. "Where are we?"

"Couple hours out of Seattle."

"Spike." She starts to sit up.

I gently push her back onto the bed. "You're not goin' anywhere, luv. I don't want to tie you down."

"Doesn't mean you won't." With a dejected sigh, she tries to find a more comfortable position. "Got me pretty bad, huh?" She touches the bloody strips of cloth gingerly. "What was it?"

"Polgara. Ran you through a couple of times. Goddamn lucky that's all it did." Now that she's awake and I know she's going to recover, I'm beginning to get angry. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Don't go all Watcher on me. I'm fine."

"Right." I raise one eyebrow speculatively. "I carried your body out of that alley because you're fine."

"Whatever." She rolls away from me, clenching her jaw tightly against the pain.

"Faith." My voice softens. I lay down beside her, carefully wrapping my arms around her and holding her against me. "Luv. What's goin' on in that pretty head of yours? I know there's something you're not telling me. What happened?" No answer. She slips her hand over mine and shakes her head a little. Eyelashes flutter and I notice a tear slip past them. "Faith?"

"The world's going to end, Spike," she whispers. "And I don't care."

"Then why are you tryin' to take on the whole demon population by yourself?"

"I don't know what to do." Desperation strains her voice and she twists in my arms, burying her face against my chest. "It's not fair. I can't."

"Luv, what's not fair?" She refuses to look at me. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me. Faith." Frustrated, I settle for working out some of the knots in the muscles of her back. She really needs to relax. Maybe I'll take her somewhere quiet when this is all over. No demons to fight, nothing but peace and quiet. My own fatigue is beginning to catch up with me and the warmth of her body soothes away the tension, leaving me drowsy. She must be feeling guilty for leaving Sunnydale, for not staying to help Buffy and the Scoobies with the end of days. Slayers. Always kicking themselves if they're not saving the world.

"Spike?" Her voice is barely audible.

"Yeah?" I press a soft kiss against her hair.

"I talked to Giles." She's perfectly still in my arms. "I called to tell Buffy we were fine. He answered the phone."

"He give you the vampire, Slayer lecture?" I can only imagine it was the same one he'd given Buffy half a million times.

"It's Dawn. She's dying." A tremor passes through her shoulders and she wraps her arms around me possessively, as though she's afraid I'll pull away from her. "I didn't tell you. I didn't want to freak you out."

I'm still trying to find my voice. It got lost somewhere between my throat and my lips. Is this part of the whole end of the world that I'm supposedly responsible for? Is it my fault? In my mind, I see Dawn collapsing in the basement; feel myself straining against the chains to catch her. I should have known. Should have known she was in trouble. I should have stayed in Sunnydale. Stayed with Dawn.

"Don't leave me." The fear in her voice stops the endless parade of should haves in my brain. All I know is that the Watchers blame me for what's happening. It wouldn't be the first time they were wrong or lying through their teeth. I can't help Dawn if I'm dust.

"You said Verek knew what was goin' on?"

"He knew about the Hellmouth calling you." She looks up at me, confused but hopeful.

"Maybe he'll know something. To help the Niblet." I brush her hair back and see the raw relief in her eyes as she smiles. "Rest up til nightfall and then we'll head out. Sound good?" With a faint nod, she closes her eyes and turns back into my embrace, still holding onto me.

I curl around her, keeping her injuries in mind and trying not to jostle them. If the Watchers are wrong and it's not my fault, I need to get some answers. If they're right? I'm not sure what happens then. Maybe the world crumbles and goes to hell. Skies open, death pours down and mankind follows the dinosaurs down that path to extinction. Happy trails to them. If some survive, maybe the landscape will change to the gloomy, post-apocalyptic tangle I've seen in the movies. It doesn't feel real. I'm just one vampire. This burden should be on Angel, the Great Crusader for the People and the original vampire with a soul. Why doesn't the fate of humanity rest on his shoulders? He would choose the world. Not for Dawn, not for Buffy. He would do it for all the people he doesn't know, for the ones who would run screaming from his demon face and not think twice before they tried to stake him. For all of them. He's a hero. I'm not.

I'm just a vampire. Wrong place, wrong time. Story of my life. Would the Initiative have captured me if I'd come back a day later or not at all? Would I have ended up in Lurky's cave if Buffy and I had never been forced to work together? What if Soldier Boy hadn't ever shown up looking for the demon eggs? That particular memory does nothing to ease the mood. He'd better pray he never crosses my path again. Then again, if he hadn't come back, Buffy wouldn't have left me, I wouldn't have tried to rape her, and I wouldn't be lying here with Faith in my arms.

Life's a funny thing.

* * *

They were dead. The thought kept Cara moving as she staggered out of the abandoned building where she had found the lair. Dust. It was everywhere. In her hair, coating her skin; she would never be free of it. Everywhere she looked there was more dust and more blood. Wincing against the pain, she stepped into the safety of sunlight and eased herself onto the top of a wooden crate. Only then did she let go of the stake in her hand. It clinked against the guns in her knapsack as she delicately removed the straps from her shoulders and lowered it to the ground.

There was blood in her mouth. A loose tooth. It streamed down the side of her face where the skin had been cut by a piece of metal rebar sticking out of the concrete wall in the basement of the building. Her shoulder was slashed and a deep gash in her right calf was throbbing. Ripping away the bloody fabric, she pulled strips of clean cloth and duct tape from her sack. Steadily and efficiently, she wrapped her leg with the rags and again with the tape. Wonderful stuff. Worked better than surgical tape and stuck to almost anything. The real world was about using what you had, what you could find. A shard of broken glass to blind a vampire, stun him enough to get a good angle with your stake. Little things.

If she hadn't been several hundred miles from Detroit, Avery would have fussed over her wounds and insisted on using something other than tape to bind them. Not sanitary, he would say in his rumbling voice. Just a little thing. She should be worried about boys and prom gowns instead of vampires and combat wounds. He'd never explained what a prom gown was and had only shaken his head when she asked. Blotting the cut on her forehead gently, trying not to break the fragile layer of congealed blood, she smiled at the fantasy coddling in her head. Wounds healed.

At least one more death squad was dust. No clues. She was still no closer to discovering who was behind the murders. And now she knew that she couldn't save them. Even the family in Defiance couldn't be saved. Another group of vampires had found them a few weeks later. Cara had the newspaper clipping folded neatly in her jacket pocket. All she could do was track the monsters down one by one and kill them. Five more vampires were dead. There were others out there, killing innocents. She couldn't save all of them. Maybe she couldn't save any of them. Being a Slayer was an exercise in futility; one girl against the armies of hell. She could kill a thousand, a thousand thousand, and there would still be more coming.

She would be fighting until the day she died. What would she have to show for it? A big pile of dust. The same dust that she could still taste no matter how much water she drank. And scars. Looking down at her arms, she knew where each one of them had come from. Which vampire, which demon, had given them to her as a souvenir. Still she fought. There was nothing else for her in this world. Just dust and blood. Would she ever be rid of it? Ever be able to finally get it all out of her hair, off of her skin. Breath without inhaling it. The world wasn't beautiful. It wasn't happy or peaceful. Every day, every night was a battle. She was a warrior. Simple enough.

Limping away, she went in search of a safe place to rest. Somewhere quiet. She needed sleep before night came and she had to go back out into the streets. As battered as she was, she had to stay away from the usual shelters and kitchens that fed the homeless. It was strange. Surrounded by men and women who scrounged for food, clothing, anything. They were like her. They found their belongings in trash heaps, their life scraped from the bottom of the darkest streets. They were the only people she could really help. Bundled in discarded clothing, they crawled into cardboard boxes with their belongings. Their shopping carts piled high with broken treasures. Whatever they could find, whatever they could touch. The purse with the broken strap was as important to the woman watching from her disintegrating hovel as the stake was to Cara. Nothing left to lose but the blood in their veins and breath in their lungs. Easy prey for demons. Even the innocents she saved were left facing death in another form. She saved them from demons so they could wrap their cars around telephone poles or shoot each other over drugs and money. So they could die of heart attacks and cancer. She couldn't save them from death or from themselves.

As she stumbled around the corner, she noticed a gathering of people in front of one of the large stone buildings that meant safety; the smell of food was thick in the air. One of the small local convents was providing a warm meal for the homeless. Closing the knapsack tightly and covering her bloody shoulder with her denim jacket, she stuck her hands in her pockets and hoped her injuries weren't too noticeable. She was hungry but she couldn't afford to draw attention to herself.

The elderly nun smiled as she handed Cara a bowl of soup. "Where is your family, dear?"

"I don't have any." It was the truth. She didn't remember anything before the Slayer Academy. Life before that wasn't important.

"Are you injured? Do you need a doctor?"

Cara looked down at her hand. Bloody knuckles. It wasn't her blood. Nuns wouldn't understand. They were the type who deserved to be saved. Who were kind to her when they didn't have to be. "I'm fine." She took the plastic bowl and retreated quickly. Just another kid on the street. Probably hurt in a fight, probably high, probably selling her body for drug money. She knew where their pity came from, knew what they saw when they looked at her. It didn't matter.

Her stomach growled as she settled onto a relatively clean patch of concrete to eat her soup. Potatoes, carrots. It always tasted better than anything she could remember. Except Dawn and Buffy's brownies. She hadn't known food could taste like that. Rich, warm. They had been shocked when she had asked what the chocolate squares were. It was a good memory, but she wasn't sure why. What made it good? Why was it pleasant to think of it? It was warm in a gallery of images that left her cold and tired. A ray of light in a parade of darkness. Like the stake in her pocket, it reminded her that life wasn't all dirty streets and empty eyes. There was more than just dust. Even if she would never understand, never touch it or have it. Buffy Summers was different. She belonged in the world, she was part of it. Cara knew that with certainty. Just as she knew that she would never be part of it and never have friends or a sister. Sister. What would that be like? How did someone get a sister? Could she pick one out? Like clothing. Or a cat. The monks had given Dawn to Buffy. Could they give Cara a sister?

Plastic clicked against the metal garbage can when she discarded the empty bowl, still hungry. One of the nuns gave her a smile and thanked her for not leaving the bowl on the ground. Saving the environment. From what? Sometimes people didn't make any sense at all. Most times actually. She settled back down on the ground and watched the crowd. The nuns wouldn't leave until the soup was gone. They were easy targets for a lazy vampire. There were even some who seemed determined to lash out at any and every holy icon; anything blessed or good was an irritant. Whores were easier food to get, but there were always a handful who braved the rosaries and holy water to scare a few old ladies. She wasn't sure if it was supposed to be humorous, still iffy on what was supposed to be funny in this world. Killing demons was the only way she had to thank them for giving her food and kindness; she hoped it was enough.

Checking the sun, she noted that she had a few hours of daylight left. Enough to get some sleep. Her knapsack was a terrible pillow but she felt more secure knowing it couldn't be stolen without waking her up. Only a couple pairs of dirty hands had ever tried. The vamp had gotten dusted for his trouble and the terrified human had ended up in the emergency room. It had taken her a moment to realize he wasn't a demon trying to kill her. Adjusting her wounded leg carefully to keep the injury away from the filthy ground, she tucked herself into a ball and closed her eyes against the light of day. What would it be like to sleep forever? In a soft, warm bed of pillows and cotton sheets. It was a luxury she could barely comprehend but it made her smile and lured her into a restless slumber.

* * *

"Time to face the firing squad." Iverson took a deep breath and pushed open the doors to the library. The Watchers who had been opposed to his going to Sunnydale would be up in arms over what he was about to tell them. He already had a headache and Weatherby hadn't even opened his mouth.

Roberts smiled and pulled out the chair for him. "Welcome back, sir."

"Thank you, Roberts." Iverson sat down and gazed over the table, seeing that everyone's eyes were on him. Where to begin?

"I trust your trip went well?" Caldwell inquired thoughtfully.

"It was enlightening at least." The Head Watcher took a deep breath. "I believe that we now know how William the Bloody is responsible for the destabilization. He has a soul."

"What?" Weatherby was the only one to speak. The rest were too stunned.

"He wasn't cursed. He regained his soul of his own free will. Something believed impossible for a demon to want, let alone accomplish." Iverson nodded to Roberts. "You are also aware of the assault on the Slayer lines. I'm afraid that I don't have much hope for the remaining families. We cannot possibly find and protect them all. We believe that vampires, hunting in packs of five to seven, are responsible for the killings but we have been unable to ascertain who is behind the attacks."

"Where is the vampire?"

"I don't know. He was in Sunnydale when I arrived."

"What happened?"

"He left. With Faith."

"Faith? The Slayer?"

"One and the same. Apparently her death was not of the permanent kind." Iverson felt the corner of his mouth twitch as he thought about it. It was still unbelievable and he'd had nearly two weeks to digest the information.

"Miss Summers knew of this?"

"Yes."

"And she did nothing to stop the vampire from leaving Sunnydale?"

"He left with her blessing." Iverson kept his voice as calm and casual as possible. "Miss Summers has refused to cooperate with the Watcher's Council and has expressed concern about our current method of training Slayers. Roberts has informed me that Cara has made no attempt to contact us. Perhaps we should re-evaluate our methods."

"Wait just a moment." Weatherby glared across the table. "She let the vampire who is responsible for this whole mess slip through our hands and she questions our methods? I should think that is all the proof that we need to confirm that we are doing the right thing with the Potentials."

"Perhaps. I would like to have them re-evaluated by a trained psychologist, to check for possible emotional side effects of our methods that weren't accounted for in the initial planning. As for Spike, there is reason to believe that the vampire will return to Sunnydale. Or possibly remove himself from the equation." Iverson hoped that Giles was right.

"What is that reason, sir?" Caldwell had paled considerably.

"An attachment to the Key. Mr. Giles is confident that he will not allow anything to happen to Dawn Summers. Since the dimensional collapse is proving to be quite harmful to her and we have made it clear that Spike is responsible, Rupert believes that it is only a matter of time before he will no longer be a concern."

"You mean he'll stake himself? That's bloody ridiculous."

"Deliberately obtaining his soul is also fantastic but nonetheless, it is true." Iverson shifted in his seat. "We have also sent another extraction team and have employed several bounty hunters to track him down in case he does not resurface before the situation reaches the breaking point."

"We can only pray for that."

"I agree."

"There is one more problem." The librarian woman spoke up. Melinda Bacher, that was her name, Iverson remembered with relief. "If William the Bloody has a soul, what happens to the prophecies found in the scroll of Aberjian? We had assumed that they dealt with Angel."

"We're going to maintain our assumption that they deal with Angel. I don't see a long life ahead of Spike, one way or another, and we know that the Powers have been aiding Angel rather than Spike. This is merely a bump in the road, Ms. Bacher."

"If we're wrong? If the prophecy is meant for Spike?"

"I don't believe we're wrong. The scroll doesn't mention more than one vampire with a soul either. My personal belief is that Spike is a fluke. An unforeseeable anomaly. Our main concern is still his capture." His fingers tapped on the table as he considered the situation ahead of them. "It will be more difficult with Faith alive. Apparently she has begun a sexual relationship with him. She might try to protect him."

"Another Slayer?" Weatherby looked angry enough to explode, his face turning a dark red. "How can this be? Is the Hellmouth doing something to them? He's a demon, for God's sake!"

"I won't pretend to have any answers as to the vampire's appeal but I don't feel it is relevant. If we have to, we will take her as well."

"And Sunnydale?"

"They are looking for another way to prevent the end of this world. I felt it best to encourage their research. If there is another way, I have every confidence that they will find it."

"How long do we have?"

"At the current rate of degradation?" Iverson checked the note Roberts handed him. "Perhaps a month before the world can no longer deny the presence of demons. Maybe another before global war begins. How long it will take for the dimensions to merge completely and mankind to be annihilated is anyone's guess."

"What do we do now?"

"First, we contact the world governments and give them a head start." Iverson stood up. "They may not believe immediately but they will listen. If we can convince them to utilize the forces they already have in place, perhaps we can maintain our grip on this earth a little longer. At this point, we know more than they do. I believe we should offer to share our resources."

"The Slayers?"

"Are on their own. It's time to trust them to do what they were born to do and, for once, look the other way. We will destroy William the Bloody if we can. Other than that, all we can do is prepare for war." He paused for a split second. "This is our purpose, the protection of this world. We can have no higher goal than that. We have been librarians and bookworms long enough, we can no longer just sit along the sidelines. There is precious little time left, let us make the most of it."

* * *

I smile at Faith as she stirs in the blankets and finally opens her eyes, blinking into the darkness. "Hey."

"Where are we?"

"Just outside New Orleans. Should be there in half an hour." That should get us out of the coming sunrise with an hour to spare.

"Your accent." She's watching me with the amused look of a mother noticing her child's eccentricities. "It changes."

"Noticed that myself." In Sunnydale, it's thicker and stronger. In New Orleans, it softens and I sound more American. I'm not sure if it's the city itself or the memories that come with it. A hundred and thirty years is a long time to keep an accent. I wonder how long it took Angelus to lose his brogue. I think he still had it around the Boxer Rebellion but it's long gone now. Maybe that's what's happening, I'm finally losing my accent. Somehow, I'm not that sorry to hear it go. Part of the past, part of the Spike that doesn't exist any longer. As long as I don't have to give up a few of my favorite words, I don't think it matters.

"Where'd you get the wheels? It's nice." She shifts in the passenger seat and looks around the interior of the sedan.

"Hot wired it in Dallas."

"I slept through that?"

"You had help."

"I knew it!" She pushes the blankets down around her waist and glares at me. "I knew you put something in my coke."

"Thought you could use the rest, luv." I raise one eyebrow, taking a second to shift my gaze from the road and check the exposed bandage on her arm. "How do you feel?"

"Groggy. No thanks to you." Tentatively she examines the wounds on her arm and thigh. "Sealed up. Probably won't break open if I'm careful."

"Then be

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Good. I'm not in the mood to be one."

"Someone got up on the wrong side of the coffin."

"Coffins don't bloody have sides and Drac's the only one of us who actually uses one. Poncy bugger still owes me."

"That right?"

She's smiling. God, I love that smile. Even if it is at my expense. It's all I can do not to pull over and kiss her breathless right then. Gotta keep moving, I remind myself. Dawn needs help. Why can't I have a nice, normal life with a wife and a few rugrats? Oh yeah. Vampire. What was I bloody thinking when I signed up for this gig?

"We'll find something." Faith's hand touches my shoulder gently. I swear she can read my mind sometimes.

"Just wishing I knew. If it is the soul mucking up the mojo." I chuckle a little bitterly. "Trust me to fuck things up trying to be a better man."

"You are. A good man. I think." She turns back to the window. "I didn't know you before."

"I was a good man. Before Dru sired me. A little on the pathetic side but a good man." Glancing over at her, I leave the highway behind and head into the city. "Anyone tell you where the name William the Bloody came from?"

She shakes her head. "Spike was from the railroad spikes, right?"

"Yeah. Sodding gits deserved it." I catch myself and throw her a grin that says I really don't believe my own words. "Christian name was William. Good and proper name, mum said. Cuffs and collars called me William the Bloody on account of my bloody awful poetry." If I had blood pumping through my veins, my face would be flushed.

"Poetry?"

"Bunch of sodding rubbish, it was."

"Never woulda guessed. Big Bad like you?"

"Only telling you cause I'm probably not going to be livin' long as I thought," I say it lightly, trying to avoid the depressing sadness that has been our constant companion since we left Sunnydale. "Wrote about a girl mostly. Cecily."

"Do you still write? Poetry that is." She's staring out the window again, detached.

"I write a bit here and there. No poetry."

"Why not?"

"Heart's not in it, s'pose. Not exactly the best of memories. Killed the pillocks who laughed at me."

"Railroad spikes?"

"Got it in one."

"Wicked." She turns to look at me, a little surprised. "B told you about the time I hijacked her body, right?"

"Harris mentioned it. Didn't give any details. Just that you fooled Captain America. Not that hard considering he was never one for seeing past his own nose."

"Remember that night at the Bronze?" At my frown, she continues. "Warm champagne?"

The light comes on. "Bloody hell." Braking at a stop sign, I take my eyes off the road to watch her laugh. "That was you?"

"Figured you'd remember."

"Not the kind of thing a man forgets." I smile as I make the turn down one of the side streets.

"Yeah. My revenge on Buffy. Pretty sad, huh?"

"That what it was? Revenge?"

"Should've used railroad spikes."

"Bit messy, luv."

"But more permanent."

I shake my head, laughing a little as I pull the car into a small parking lot. "We'll walk the rest, ditch the car here. Cops'll pick it up in a day or so."

"So considerate." She gives me a wink before gathering up the blankets and getting out of the car. I can tell her injured leg still hurts as she walks around the car. I give the inside a quick wipe down to lower the odds of the lads in blue pulling any fingerprints. Since Faith is supposed to be dead it would be a bit of a problem if her prints showed up in a stolen car. Not too worried about mine. If this whole nightmare is my fault, a few counts of grand theft auto won't really matter. The last thing from the car is a plastic container of blood. I finish it off, pulling a face at the temperature and taste of stale pig blood, and toss the dish into a garbage can as we head through the streets toward the bookstore.

The eastern sky has just begun to lighten as we turn down Bourbon and my skin is starting to tingle nervously. I hate cutting it this close. Ignoring the closed sign on the door, I rap on the glass. I hope it's loud enough for the bookworm to hear.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Faith looks around nervously.

"I think so." I'm confused. Where am I? Why am I knocking on the door?

"Spike!" The door swings open and I shake my head to clear away the cobwebs, recognizing Verek. "Sorry about that. I've been hiding from the bounty hunters. Quite tenacious. Do come in. Good to see you again, Faith." He ushers us in quickly, shutting the door behind us.

"Bounty hunters?"

"Cable has put a price on your head. That's why I warned you to stay in Sunnydale." His dark eyes take in the fresh wounds on Faith and he blinks. "But welcome back anyway. I'll put some tea on."

Steadying Faith with one hand as we climb the stairs to the small apartment, I'm strangely relieved to be back. Familiar sights, familiar smells. Even watching Verek clear away books from the couch is strangely comforting. He chatters on about the city. I'm not surprised to hear about the increased demon activity or that Cable is calling for my head. Figuratively of course. The vampire actually wants me undusted and in relatively good condition. Probably looking for a stirring round of Kick-The-Spike. Why can't any of my enemies just want to kill me? Faith curls up next to me, her head in my lap, as we wait for the tea. Stroking her hair gently, I let my thoughts wander to the morning after I brought her here, holding her as she cried. Covering her wounds with salve. The first time we kissed. Not exactly painless but mostly good memories.

"What can I do for you?" Verek places two steaming cups of tea in front of us. "I'm assuming this isn't a social call."

Nudging Faith, she sits up and snuggles against my side as I hand her one of the mugs. "It's about a friend of mine. Used to be somethin' called the Key. Green energy ball or whatnot. She's a little girl now and havin' a rough time. I figure it has to do with the world fallin' in on itself." That was definitely the Reader's Digest version. "Thought maybe you'd know about what's going on."

Verek was quiet for a moment. "I know a little about what's happening, the collapse of the dimensional matrix. I'm not familiar with the Key." He frowns thoughtfully. "But I can direct you to someone who might be able to tell you what you need to know. I can't guarantee that you'll get the answers you want but you will get the truth."

"Oracle?"

"Of a sort."

"Let's go then," Faith says, but she makes no move to pull away or get up.

"Only one can go." Verek adjusts his glasses and searches through his pockets for something. "It's probably best that Spike is the one. Let's see, where did I put that?" He starts searching through the pile of books next to the chair until he finds a small box. "Here it is. It's been kicking around here for a while now. I'm sure she'll like it."

"She?"

"Yes. Wonderful lady. A bit particular. And it never hurts to have a gift." He hands me the box. "I'll get working on a portal. Finish your tea."

Faith takes the box from my hands as Verek leaves and carefully lifts the lid. "It's a book. A very tiny book." She holds it out for me to see.

Puzzled, I take the book out of the box. It's the size of my thumbnail. Gently, I open the cover, surprised to see writing on the miniature pages inside. "Oracles. Little on the daft side, most of them. Wonder what it says." Placing it back in the box, I shake my head. "If the bint's got answers, it's worth a million of the things. Just hope she doesn't talk in riddles. Never been one of my favorite things."

"Not exactly raindrops on roses."

I glance at her. "Didn't figure you for the Rogers and Hammerstein type."

"My mom used to play it. When she was really high." She brushes away the memory with a shrug, turning her attention back to her tea.

"What happened to your mum?"

"No idea. Dropped out of high school and left her before I got called. Watcher showed up and trained me for a few months. She died."

"How?"

"Vampire. Ugly bastard too. Followed me to Sunnydale." Setting down the mug, she picks at the bandage on her arm nervously. "I killed him."

"Good for you."

"Yeah."

"You should look her up. Your mum. See what happened to her."

"What happened to your mom?"

Wishing that Verek would return and send me off to whatever hell dimension this Oracle who loves miniature books lives in, I consider lying for a moment. I won't. I can't. But I still don't want to tell her. Finally, I sigh and wrap my arm around her. "Turned her into a vampire."

"Why?" She doesn't sound horrified. Just surprised.

"She was dying. Wanted her to live forever. Be with me."

"What happened?"

"We fought." I breathe in the scent of her skin, closing my eyes against her hair. "I killed her."

"Oh. Didn't turn out how you planned then."

"Not exactly." Smiling, I ruffle her hair playfully. "Can't say Dru was disappointed. Thought I was a bit off for wanting to take my mum with me. Course, Drusilla isn't exactly one to be calling others mad."

"She loved you then? Your mother."

"More than anything." This might be the last time we get to relax. Pulling her into my arms, I intend to enjoy every second of it.

* * *

The Incarnation of War heard the battle cry across the globe. The call of a true warrior. He left the dunes and trenches of the Middle East and headed toward America, searching out the voice he could hear above all the others. He found her engaging a vampire. A Slayer. It had been many years since a Slayer had caught his eye. They had gotten far too human in the last century. Her dark hair had been butchered. There was no other word for the unusual hairstyle she was sporting. It looked as though a rat had chewed away the ends at random. The rags she was wearing were ripped and bloody, patched haphazardly with gray tape; black boots were scuffed and cracked with the wear and tear of their brutal life. Lightly tanned skin was marred by bruises, scars, and angry cuts weeping fresh blood.

She was utterly beautiful. A blood stained flower in a world that could not appreciate her purity. Her style was both elegant and furious. He could see evidence of several different schools. Control and balance were tempered with an edge that came from a deep hunger for violence. She was still raw and untested but she adapted to her opponent with the skill of a master. It was strangely heartening to see that the Slayers had not been completely domesticated by the human world around them.

This world was at a crossroad. He could feel it swelling around him, sense the coming wars that would rage until nothing remained of the planet but fire and ash. He was bound, as the others were, to sit and watch. The warrior before him would die with honor and courage, but she would still die. It was the way of this world, the way of time and humanity. The vampire she was fighting turned to dust. She cleaned and inspected her weapons carefully before moving on to find another of her prey. A true warrior. He followed.

There was no harm in watching.


	24. The Price of Domestication

**The Price of Domestication**

"Angel Investigations. We help the helpless." Fred tapped the end of her pencil on the notepad absently. They really needed to get another slogan. It didn't sound right unless Cordy was saying it. Fred just couldn't pull it off.

"This is Clair Iverson. Miss Burkle?"

"Mr. Iverson!" Fred smiled, perking up at the unexpected turn and hoping for good news. "I thought you were going back to England."

"I am in England."

"Isn't it four in the morning there?"

"Evil never sleeps. Neither do we."

"What can I help you with? I haven't found anything else about the Hellmouth or Dawn. Is there something new?"

"Actually, I'm calling for Mr. Wyndam-Pryce."

"Wesley?"

"Yes. Could you put him on? If he's there, of course."

"Oh. Sure. Just a second." Fred set the phone down and hurried to Wesley's office. "Wes? Watcher's Council on line two."

Wesley gave her a blank, unreadable look. "Watcher's Council?"

"Mr. Iverson wants to talk to you." She waited, watching as he picked up his phone and pressed the button.

"Hello? Yes, this is Wesley. What can I do for you?" He frowned as he listened. Fred had to resist the urge to go back to her desk and pick up the phone. "I really don't understand...No, I don't think that I'm interested...well..." He fell silent again, brow furrowed. "A meeting would be acceptable. How do I contact her? No, that's fine...you're confident that she'll respond? Yes, that's the correct address." He leaned back in his chair, glancing up at Fred briefly. "Simply a trial basis...yes...that's fine. I'll be waiting...good bye." He hung up the phone and stared at it.

"Well?" Fred prompted, anxious to know what had been said.

"He asked me to be a Watcher again. A special case." Wesley was still staring at the phone. "Apparently he doesn't even know where the new Slayer is. He'll send her here once they manage to contact her."

"Willow says she's like a robot and Buffy calls her the Borg Slayer." Fred frowned, realizing that she hadn't said anything helpful. "That's all I know. She was already gone by the time I got to Sunnydale."

"Interesting."

"Do you want to be a Watcher again?"

"Not exactly," he answered diplomatically. "Although a second chance is always appreciated. A chance to do it right. If that's even possible."

"You'll be a great Watcher." Fred beamed as she returned to her desk, leaving him to think about the offer. Things were definitely looking up. Wesley was getting the second chance he wanted and Cordy was actually wearing make-up again. Maybe the trip to Sunnydale had broken through whatever shell their seer had built up around herself. The only regret was that Fred hadn't been able to get any hard data on the energy waves from the Hellmouth. Of course, she still had a lot of data to go through. Hopefully she would find something that could help Dawn. Concentrating, she pulled out the notepads she had brought back, every inch of every page covered with notes and equations. Somewhere amidst all the numbers was the answer. She just had to fit all the pieces into the right equation.

Spike had won back his soul four years ago. Iverson said the symptoms had started then. They had gotten worse when Cara had been called and when Spike had brought Faith back. Worse again when Spike had refused to kill Cara. About the same time that Dawn had begun to hear whispers. Every time Spike did something against his nature, the feedback between the supernatural hotspots was disrupted. As the frequencies changed, the demon populations went crazy. Portals in space and time opened up at random as the walls between dimensions thinned. It was a mathematical nightmare. As if the controls on the walls had been taken off, leaving them unchecked and undamped. Unbalanced.

Balance. Maybe the universe was trying to balance itself. If one vampire gaining a soul had been the last grain to tip the scales, it would have to respond. Did the supernatural obey a set of mystical Newton's Laws? For every action there was an equal and opposite reaction. Did good and evil have to be conserved as well as energy? If that was true then the proper controls would be restored once enough demons had flooded into the dimension. Would that be before or after the world was destroyed?

"What are you doing Fred?" Cordy smiled as she set down a cup of coffee. "Decaf with a cinnamon twist, just for you."

"Thanks, Cordy." Fred motioned to the papers. "I'm just trying to make sense of this. I think it's about balance."

"How so?" Cordy settled down with a stack of paperwork, knowing that Fred liked to have someone to bounce ideas off of.

"I think that maybe this is the universe's response to Spike. His being good. Iverson said that their seer referred to it as breaking a metaphysical truth. That's gotta be something big. Enough to maybe tip the scales in one direction or another." Fred flipped through, looking for a reference. "Every time Spike doesn't kill someone, when any other vampire would have, it seems to get worse."

"But why would he be so important?"

"I'm not sure he is. Not him as a person anyway. If a star became a black hole without having enough mass, it wouldn't really matter which star it was, just that it happened."

"I'm not going to even pretend I know what that means, Fred."

"Mass is the critical factor in determining if a star will become a black hole or not. Too little mass and you get a neutron star or a white dwarf. If this was violated, I don't even know what would happen because it can't happen. Does that make sense?"

"It's breaking an unbreakable law?"

"Exactly." Fred frowned. "Spike broke an unbreakable law. The universe is trying to compensate. It's rearranging to take him into account."

"I'm not sure. It may mean that once balance is restored, everything will go back to normal. But that could be after everyone is dead. I don't know what the price of Spike's soul is. I don't know if anyone does."

"Well. At least the visions are back. That has to mean something, right?" Cordy looked up from her mug. "The PTB wouldn't be sending them if the world was going to end."

"I hope you're right." Fred finally picked up her coffee, pulling away from her notebooks and frowning at them as though a new perspective would provide insight. "Because if that's not the case then there's nothing we can do. Even killing Spike wouldn't stop what's happening. I think it took this long to react because there's a metaphysical type of inertia that has to be overcome to shift the energy feedback of the hotspots. Either by changing the frequencies or the intensity of the waves, I'm still not sure how they work; changing the feedback would have destabilized the matrix. And I don't know how Dawn fits into this whole mess but I think Giles is right about the resonance theory. Once the hotspots reach resonance, the world will fly apart. Literally."

"You lost me back at inert or intern...whatever."

"Inertia. An object in motion stays in motion, an object at rest stays at rest, until acted upon by an outside force. It means that things tend to stay the way they are."

"Like Angel refusing to wear colors other than black and navy blue."

"Sort of." Fred smiled. "It takes a lot of force to effect the inertia of a large object. If it took four years for the inertia of the universe to correct itself because of Spike, it'll take just as long the other way. Assuming that killing Spike has any effect at all."

"So it might not help because we've already hit the self-destruct button four years ago and the countdown is almost done?"

"Well. Yeah."

Cordy winked at her. "That's a lot less confusing than all that inertia stuff."

"Glad to have you back, Cordy."

"Glad to be back."

* * *

"Bloody hell!" I stumble out of the portal and immediately expect to be reduced to ash. There's a goddamn sun right above my head. What the hell was Verek thinking? Nothing happens. Not even a tingle. Opening one eye, still waiting to start on fire, I look around. I'm in the middle of a field. Reminds me of the countryside north of London. There's a cottage in the distance. Thatched roof and surrounded by a flower garden that could have been straight out of the Cotswolds. Why aren't I on fire again? I squint in the bright light as I travel toward the cottage. The Oracle must live there, wherever there is. I'd like to stay out in the sun and enjoy it. I haven't felt the sun since the Gem of Amara and I'd forgotten the soft warmth of it. Who wouldn't want to stay just a little bit longer? But Dawn needs me. The whole world needs me. Bloody ridiculous. Weaving carefully through the flowers, I knock loudly on the door, listening for any hint of life behind the wood.

"Come in," a strong, female voice commands me.

Opening the door, I move cautiously into the warmly lit cottage, blinking at the cheery fire dancing in the hearth and the woman watching me across the room. She's tall with dark auburn hair pulled back into a loose bun. Striking without being beautiful, she's working on a scale model of a medieval castle. That explains the book.

"Hello." I move toward her cautiously, pulling the box from my pocket. "Brought you something. From Verek."

"Buttering me up?"

"Umm. Yeah. You could say that." Somehow I don't think I'll get away with anything less than the truth with her. Her brown eyes can probably see right through me.

She takes the box and opens it quickly, pulling out the tiny book. "The Divine Comedy. How fitting." She laughs as she puts the book back into its case and places it on the bookshelf behind her. "You have questions. Fire away."

Blinking with surprise, I tentatively take a seat on the small sofa. "Who are you?"

"Call me Alatheia. What I am is unimportant. You wouldn't understand anyway."

"Hey." I'm about to be offended when she glances up from her model and raises one eyebrow. "You're probably right."

"It's not meant to be an insult. Just the truth."

I frown, not sure how to proceed. Diplomacy was never something I strived to perfect. "About what's happening? In my world."

"Dimensional walls are collapsing. All the worlds occupying the same space will merge together." She gives me another measuring look. "There won't be much left when the dust settles."

"Is it my fault? Because of the soul?"

"Yes and no."

"How is it yes?"

"Yes, because you got the soul back. On purpose." She dabs some sort of putty on a miniature brick and tamps it into place. "Crazy vampire. You must really be into pain. I've been around a very long time and I've never seen anything like you."

"Thanks."

"Wasn't a compliment."

"Didn't think so." She has to be the weirdest Oracle in existence. "How is it no then?"

"The problem isn't that you have your soul back."

"Thought you just said it was."

"Semantics. The English language is completely unequipped to describe ninety percent of all natural phenomena, how could it possibly begin to tackle the supernatural?" She frowns at the castle and picks up another tiny brick. "A vampire having a soul isn't the problem. We could give every last one of them a soul without batting an eye. Most of the idiots would be useless and stake themselves within a few hours. Many of them would just drown out the soul. Having a soul doesn't give you a pass to being good and holy."

"Right. So the problem isn't that I have my soul, it's that I got it back?" Confusion doesn't begin to describe the circles my head is spinning.

"The problem is that your demon wanted it. Wanted to be good. Your demon wants to be a man." Alatheia levels her all-knowing gaze at me and puts down her tools. "And that is not only unprecedented, it's also wrong on half a billion levels. It's not supposed to want to be good. Ever. It's a demon."

"The problem is the demon?"

"Exactly. He's been tamed. Domesticated."

"Then it is my fault."

"In the old proverbial nutshell, yes." She watches me carefully.

"And Dawn? What will happen to Dawn?"

"The Key is a universal link between dimensions. If that energy is destroyed, the Key will be as well." She pauses thoughtfully. "I'm not sure about the human form it's in but it probably won't be pretty. I'd suggest not being too close to her. Better put plastic over the furniture."

"What?" Oracle or not, I don't like anyone talking about Dawn like she's just a thing. Just a Key. She's a bloody human being.

She shrugs and turns back to her model. "I can see what Chronos likes about you though. You're loyal. Bizarre. Twisted. With severe masochistic tendencies but in an endearing sort of way."

"Who?" I have more questions now than I did when I came here.

"Old friend of mine. He's been watching you for some time." She laughs at a private joke as she starts on the turret. "I like you. Much more than Angel. He's only just begun to pull back the curtain, see the world for what it really is. Just between us, I much prefer him without the soul. Infinitely more entertaining."

"I'm the one who's twisted? You don't happen to be related to Dru somehow?"

"Drusilla. There's a name I haven't heard in years. What is that crazy girl up to?"

"Not a bleedin' clue." The bint's got to be completely off her rocker. Worked on too many castles. Maybe she eats that paste as well. "What do I do? To fix this whole mess. To save Dawn."

"I think that would be quite obvious." She blinks at me. "Get rid of the demon."

"Any way to do that without involving pointy wooden things or an open flame?" When she doesn't respond, I sigh. Part of me knew this was coming. "Didn't think so." So that's it then. End of Spike. Come all this way to sacrifice myself for the world.

"It's a pity. Watching the Powers scurry like the insignificant bugs they are has been the most fun I've had in a few millennia. I'd love to see them try to pull your strings the way they've pulled Angel's. You would have seen through their lies in a heartbeat. Figuratively speaking of course."

"You don't give a rat's ass about the world, do you?"

"Is there a reason I should?"

"It seems to be bloody hilarious to you. Other people's misery. What will you laugh at when we're gone?" I'm getting a little testy. Forgetting the cardinal rule of never losing your temper with Oracles.

She actually seems disappointed by the prospect. "I suppose I'll have to find something else."

"You're fucking cracked."

"That's entirely possible." She's watching me with renewed intensity and I wonder if she's trying to think of new and exciting ways to eviscerate me. "You're not exactly walking the sane and narrow yourself."

"Least I don't get off on watching billions of innocent people die."

"Innocent? You think they're innocent just because they don't have fangs and drink blood. My dear vampire, you know better."

"I know they're not all saints but they don't deserve this. They don't deserve to die because of me."

"What do they deserve?"

"To live." I'm getting frustrated. "Sleep, eat, have babies, get a dog. Hell, they deserve to shoot each other and start wars, bloody wreck the whole planet if they want to. Long as they're the ones making the choices. They deserve a fucking choice."

"And you? What do you deserve?"

Her question deflates my anger and I shake my head sadly. "I just want to say good bye. To the Bit, to Faith. God, even to Buffy and the Scoobies. Other than that I don't bloody care what happens to me. I'm tired of this world and the weight on my shoulders. I don't want it anymore." She smiles and somehow I'm more terrified by that smile than any demon I've ever seen.

* * *

Faith heard the high-pitched whine of the missile a second before it shattered the front window and exploded in the shop, incinerating everything within twenty feet of the blast. Diving behind the counter, she screamed for Verek. He came crawling out of the rubble, a little singed around the edges, and motioned for her to follow him. Flames crackled behind her, heat and smoke pouring in acrid waves through the air.

"Fucking demons have to choose now to get with technology," she muttered as she slipped behind a heavy curtain. There was a desk in the center of the room. He pushed it aside, revealing a trapdoor beneath. Another explosion rocked the building.

"I believe they've found us," Verek said ruefully as his shop began to burn.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault at all, my dear." He followed Faith down into the darkness, handing her a flashlight.

Faith flicked on the light and looked around. "What is this?" It was damp, smelling of mold and decay. Water stains covered the brickwork and several inches of filthy water at the bottom, beginning to soak through her shoes and socks.

"Old tunnel system. Most of it was abandoned. The water table is high enough that preventing flooding was impossible. It's been a dry year." He motioned one direction. "That way."

"What about Spike? Will he be alright?"

"Alatheia will take care of him." Verek glanced back as they took a left turn. "She may be eccentric and brash but she's not heartless. Not entirely, anyway."

"I don't trust Oracles. Give me the wiggins." She grimaced a little at the Buffyism but decided it didn't matter anymore. "Where are we going?"

"Sanctuary."

"Where?"

"It's a bar."

"We're going to a bar?"

"Great martinis. You should try one while we're there."

"Whoa. Wait just a second. I'm not going to fucking sit on my ass. What if Spike comes back? We don't know who's firing those missiles or how many there are?" Faith almost stamped her foot with frustration. The healing wound in her thigh kept her from giving in to the childish urge.

"He'll never forgive me if I don't get you to safety."

"I can take care of myself. He's the one who needs help."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate the gesture but I really don't want to get on his bad side." Verek started down another tunnel. "Do you have any idea the damage he did when he was looking for you?"

"Killed a few demons." Faith bit her lower lip, sidestepping something that looked suspiciously like the half eaten remains of a rat.

"More like every demon he got his hands on. He took out half of Cable's elite guard and dusted enough vampires to fill the back of a pick up. They'll be telling stories to baby demons for decades. Don't go out at night, Junior, William the Bloody will get you." He sounded vexed. "He thinks that he got chipped, or he got his soul, and stopped being a bad-ass vampire. New Orleans tells a different tale. He's never been more dangerous."

"Why's that?" She wasn't actually following the demon's rant but he seemed to need to get it off his chest.

"Because he's found something to believe in, demon and soul. He's found a reason to live." Dark eyes caught her gaze as his head swiveled around. "You."

"Whatever." Faith brushed him off. "It's not like that between us."

"Then what is it like?"

"It's not love." She was surprised by the intensity in her voice.

"You're right. It's not."

"What?"

"It's more than that." The little demon was agitated. Probably because his shop was burning to the ground as they spoke. "What you have is perfect understanding. Perfect faith. In each other. That's something that not even the greatest love can begin to approach." He stopped at another intersection and looked into the shadows above them. "You'll never find it again. Either of you." He reached up, pushing aside a manhole cover with his fingertips. "And, quite frankly, the heat coming off of you two could fry an egg."

Faith blushed as she pulled herself up through the opening into an alley after him. "So we're on the same page and good in the sack. That what you're saying?"

"You trust each other. That's more rare than love." Verek shrugged and crossed to a heavy steel door, knocking loudly. A slot opened and inhumanly bright eyes stared out.

"Password?"

"Aperio." Verek nodded to Faith. "She's with me."

"Very well." The demon opened the door and smiled politely. At least Faith thought it was a smile, she could have been wrong.

"You knew he would come for you," Verek continued as he led the way through the darkened hallways. "When you were captured, you knew he was coming, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but-"

"And he knows that you'll find him. Kill whoever it takes, do whatever it takes to find him." A doorway opened into a twenties style bar complete with Louie Armstrong and waitresses in fringe. "There will be no doubt. He knows you'll find him."

"I'd like to get with the finding. Now would be good."

"He hasn't returned yet." Verek ushered her toward a booth. An older gentleman with a long, silver beard was already sitting there. "Chronos, this is Faith. Faith, Chronos."

"Hey." Faith slid into the booth across from the man and looked around nervously. With the firepower after them, she would've been more comfortable in a fortress. "You sure we're safe here?"

"No harm will come to you." Chronos smiled benevolently. "Martini?"

"What is it with you guys and the goddamn martinis? Fine. I'll take one." She glared at Verek.

"How are you, Verek? I heard your store was attacked, so sorry."

"I needed to remodel anyway." Verek signaled one of the waitresses. "Two martinis please." He waited until she was gone before turning back to Chronos. "I sent Spike to see Alatheia."

"I'd pay good money to see that confrontation," Chronos chuckled.

"I rather thought Alatheia would like Spike."

"Oh, she'll adore him. If they don't kill each other."

"Wait a sec," Faith interrupted. "No one said anything about killing. Why would she kill Spike?"

"He has a tendency to get under people's skin. So does she. Two peas in a pod, really."

Faith looked at the old man suspiciously. "Are you a demon too? Like Verek."

"I'm something a little different."

Conversation halted as the waitress returned with the drinks. Faith eyed hers for a moment; alcohol had never been her drug of choice. Violence and sex were much more exciting. Finally she gave in and took a sip. "Damn. This isn't half bad."

"It's the olives. They're imported." Chronos continued to smile serenely.

* * *

Ms. Bollington was a conscientious woman. A good woman raised by good parents in a nice, conservative home with a terrier and a rose garden. Her clothes were always neatly pressed and her handwriting was impeccable. She was a perfect model of what a woman should be. Reserved, respectful, neat as a pin, and effortlessly competent in a great number of subjects. When she heard the alarm bells at the Slayer Academy, she followed the given procedure to the letter. She placed a call to the Headquarters, to the London police, and another to the Head Watcher's home number. Only then did she leave her small apartment to check on the girls.

Doors had been ripped from their hinges and angry slices ran along the walls in irregular lines. Pulling her dressing gown tighter around her body, she hesitantly made her way to the dormitory style bedrooms. Bits of shattered wood lay about the floor and the overhead lights had been smashed.

"Maria? Sally?" There were no answers, just the eerie silence echoing back her own timid cry. Mindful of the dangerous slivers of wood beneath her feet, she picked her way to the first room and peered into the shadows. "Girls? Answer me. Is anyone there?" Fear clutched at her heart. Had someone kidnapped the girls? Why weren't they answering her? Fumbling for the light switch, she prayed that all the globes hadn't been broken. There it was. Light flickered into the darkness.

Amanda Bollington felt her stomach churn and managed to turn away before her dinner ended up on the floor of the bedroom. Unable to breathe, she could only stare in horror at the bloodied bodies lying in the beds. Maria. Danielle. They had been gutted like fish and tossed aside carelessly, heads lolling to the side and eyes staring blankly out of their skulls.

Wiping her mouth, she backed out of the room, terrified of what she was seeing. Of what she would find in the other rooms. Where they all dead? All of her girls. Dear God. She stumbled down the hallway, hand pressed against her lips as she checked the remaining rooms. It was the same. Death, blood. So much blood. How had this happened? Who would do such a thing? A quiet sound at the end of the hallway caught her attention and she froze. Was the murderer still there?

Creeping forward, she picked up a piece of broken door, holding it in front of her desperately. There it was again. A whisper. Almost the sound of someone or something breathing. Moving between the swaths of light from the bedrooms and forcing herself to keep her eyes away from the gruesome sights within, she tried to still her trembling hands and concentrate on the sound. She was almost back at her own doorway, its light beckoning to her and promising the safety of familiarity. Where were the police? Shouldn't they be here by now? Inching along the wall, she tried to peer around the corner into the lobby.

A monster was standing in the center of the room. She didn't know what it was but she could see the blood on its hands. Or claws. It stood on its hind legs, sniffing the air with a snout covered in snake-like scales. Rust colored bristles danced over the dark skin as it lowered onto all fours, muscles rolling over its shoulders and back. Claws clicked against the floor, flicking blood as they moved. The flexible spires along its spine bounced as it pivoted. Reptilian eyes focused on her, narrowing to slits as its nostrils flared open. Closing her eyes, she sunk to the floor and prayed that the end would be quick.

It was.


	25. Changing of the Guard

**Changing of the Guard**

This was how insects felt. When they were trapped in a spider's web, doomed to watch through multifaceted eyes as eight creepy, crawly legs danced around their body, spinning silk into a binding cocoon. Couldn't move. Could barely breath. Waiting for the arachnid to come back and finish them off with a plunge of their fangs. Spiders were like vampires. Majorly gross.

"Buffy!" Dawn turned her head to the side. It was all she could move anyway. The rest of her was wrapped tightly in blankets and strips of cloth. She was crash proof. She could probably roll down the stairs and not get hurt at all. Like a big, puffy ball of weird Key mojo that tended to wig out on occasion. Rolling and flexing like a caterpillar, she managed to get to the side of the bed and swing her legs over the edge. Standing up was harder. "Buffy!"

"Just a second, Dawn." Buffy's voice was muffled by the bathroom door.

"Right. Leave Dawn defenseless and helpless. You probably just want to hog all the pizza to yourself," Dawn muttered as she raised herself up onto her tiptoes. Time to test that crash dummy theory. She teetered, swaying as she tried to find a balance. The Stay-Puft Marshmallow Woman without arms. Leaning Tower of Care Bear blankets. She managed to walk with clipped steps that reminded her of Xander's kung-fu movies with the women in tight kimonos. How did they walk in those things? And they had those wacky sandals too. Giving up, she settled for hopping down the hallway, bumping into walls as she lost her balance.

"What are you doing?" Buffy asked as she emerged from the bathroom; her hands paused, her hair only halfway into a ponytail, as she eyed Dawn.

"The Mazurka. What does it look like?" Dawn rolled her eyes. "I think I'll call it...Escape of the Great Dawn Slug."

"Ha ha." Buffy raised an eyebrow. "I could fireman carry you down the stairs?"

"Just give me a push at the top and I'll let gravity do the walking. Or rolling. Or maybe a good slinky imitation. I haven't decided on my entrance yet."

"Always pushing the envelope." For a moment, Buffy's expression reminded Dawn of her mother. She really hated those monks.

"I know you have pizza. Hand it over or the girl goes down the stairs," Dawn threatened half-seriously. She was a little tempted to try out her padding and see if she could make the corner.

"Why don't you go down like you did when you were a little kid?" Buffy sat down on the top steps, trying not to laugh as she started down the stairs one at a time. Feet, butt, feet, butt. "You always looked like an inchworm."

"Monks messin' with your brain, sister dearest." Dawn shook her head but plopped ungracefully onto her rear end. At least she thought it was her rear end; all that padding made it hard to tell. Toes wiggled at the bottom of her cocoon and she began the bumpy slide down the stairs. Bump. Bump. She landed unceremoniously at the bottom of the stairs, panting as Buffy pulled her back onto her feet.

"Real smooth. I give the dismount a seven."

"Only a seven? I'd like to see you do any better. You may be the Slayer but I am a professional slug."

"Gotta have something to fall back on."

"Yeah. Since you've cornered the saving the world market. Xander's got the hammer and nail thing down to a science." Dawn hopped around the corner, heading for the kitchen and the smell of greasy cheese. "And Willow's got the magic mojo goin' on."

"And Giles has that big brain. Plus, he's British."

"Yessiree...make way for Dawn. She can hop circles around the rest of the not exactly human Key things that no one really knows what are but are currently wrapped up like an egg roll."

"And all that in one breath." Buffy helped Dawn onto a stool, her legs sticking out almost straight.

"Hey, Dawnie." Xander held up a slice of pizza. "All cheese goodness or Canadian bacon?"

"Bring on the cheese. And could someone itch my nose?" Dawn pulled a face as Buffy scratched the bridge of her nose. "Thanks. I was seriously ready to pull a crazy fit."

"Here's your pizza. We could play the airplane game." Buffy took a seat next to Dawn, holding out the slice.

"I'm nineteen." Dawn rolled her eyes and opened her mouth, trying not to get cheese all over as she bit into the pizza. "How long am I going to be doing the burrito motif?"

"Until we can be sure you won't hurt yourself."

"And that is?" Dawn didn't expect an answer. She knew they didn't have one to give her but it didn't hurt to ask.

Willow and Giles are doing the number crunching right now. To figure out how much time we have left."

"Until you have bits of Key all over the wallpaper?" Dawn took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Do you think I'll explode?"

"Dawn."

"Joking."

"Not sure we need the mental." Xander gave her a hesitant smile. "But it's cool that you're not doing the hysterics and estrogen crying thing."

"I'd love to. But then I'd have to have someone blow my nose and that's major ewww." She struggled against her bindings, trying to shift her stiff muscles. "Bad enough that you have to feed me." The telltale whining was beginning in the back of her head and an army of invisible insects began their frenzied dance beneath her skin. It was the polka, she had decided. Or the Macarena. Evil probably meant the Macarena. She glanced at the clock on the wall. "ETA of the next 'sode is about five minutes. Maybe less."

Buffy's expression immediately turned concerned and she put the pizza slice back onto the paper towel. "Do you want to wait?"

"Yeah. Just catch me when I go all fritzy, okay?" Silence settled over the room. She probably wouldn't have heard the conversation over the buzzing in her ears anyway. "Keep talking. I'll try to seizure quietly."

Buffy smiled sadly. "You're a brave kid."

"Good genes." Dawn smiled back, beginning to tense for the upcoming attack. "Better get me on the floor then." She sighed as Buffy helped her down onto the linoleum, lying flat on her back. Her long hair had been pulled into a tight French braid to keep it from catching on something and pulling out. She blinked. The air around her seemed to thicken and quiver. That was different.

"Dawn?"

"Buffy? Something's different. I don't know..." Dawn shook her head, trying to see through the distorted space around her. Buffy's face blurred together and the world began to melt around her. Watercolors. It always reminded her of the watercolor paintings her mother had tacked on their fridge. Masterpieces. Even then, Dawn had known they were little more than blotches and lines but her mother had loved them. Now the whole world was a watercolor. And it was screaming.

She could feel the vibrations in her blood, in her bones, as they overtook her. Teeth chattered and she was grateful for the padded strip Buffy forced into her mouth to keep her from biting down on her tongue. She felt herself collide with the walls and furniture. Buffy was trying to hold on to her. Green lines shot out and away from her, breaking through the mess of color like crackling laser beams. This was her, the real her. The Key in all its green, glowy, energy matrix craziness. Wind whipped at her, clawing and pulling on the green threads. It wasn't real, the wind, but she could feel it sting her face, feel the world trembling and shaking. And she could feel that this was not the only world, not the only dimension. They were all shaking, crashing in on themselves as the Hellmouths sang. Or screeched. Sometimes it sounded like singing. It felt like being ripped into a million pieces, shattering like the vase she'd broken when she was five.

Slowly, the world came back into focus and the pain faded to a dull ache. There was the usual taste of blood in the back of her throat. Buffy would be holding her, a cloth pressed against her nose carefully. Green threads retreated, faded away as the rest of the colors came back. Lovely colors. Wonderful colors. And voices. Soft murmuring voices.

"...was longer. It's getting worse." Buffy sounded frightened. Usually not of the good. A frightened Slayer meant badness all around and usually the apocalyptic kind.

"We'll find something, Buffy. We'll save her."

"Angel thought that maybe, if we could find a way to get rid of Spike's soul, he wouldn't have to die."

"I don't know." It was Willow's voice, soft and concerned. "Maybe. What do you want to do?"

"We need to talk to him. Find him. Can you do that?"

"Sure." Willow was moving away.

"He'll want to help." That was Xander. "He cares about Dawn."

"I know." Buffy was holding her tightly enough that Dawn could smell her lotion.

"What can I do?"

"Call Angel. He said he'd look after Sunnydale." Buffy was quiet for a moment. "I'll take Dawn away from here. See if it helps."

Dawn didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want to move. Too tired. Too lost. Part of her dizzy brain registered that she was going to be leaving Sunnydale. Yay. Road trip. Somehow it's not as much fun when you're running away. Death is on your heels, baby. Where did that come from? Familiar voice. Low, male, accented. Spike?

"Dawn? What did you say?"

"Death is on your heels," Dawn mumbled, repeating the phrase.

"What? Dawn? Talk to me."

"You're not ready to know." She could hear the words in her mind. They didn't make any sense at all.

"Dawn. You're scaring me. Please, Dawnie."

Words continued to tumble out of her confused mouth; she could barely hear her own voice. Echoes. Thousands, millions of echoes bounced around her skull. "Goodbye Picadilly, Farewell Leichester bloody square. Where does it lead you?"

"What's she talking about?" Xander's voice was barely a whisper in the noise.

"I don't know, Xander." Panic edged into Buffy's voice.

"You think you know, what's to come, what you are. You haven't even begun." Dawn tried to shake the words away. The world went black.

* * *

"Do you think she'll follow?" Roberts was clutching his ever-present notepad anxiously.

"Probably. She appears determined to pursue the vampires." Iverson ran his fingers through his hair wearily, the words on the monitor of his computer blurred from too much coffee and too little sleep. "If she can protect the Hendersons then we've all won. If not, at least she's in Los Angeles and she knows that there's a Watcher who has information. Should luck be on our side, she'll protect him as well."

"About that," Roberts hesitated. "Do you think it was wise to give the vampires the impression that Mr. Wyndam-Pryce knows who is behind their attacks?"

"I had to give her a reason to go to LA. I had to give her a reason to find Wesley. As far as I can tell, she's abandoned her training entirely. Simply telling her that she has a new Watcher would have done very little. We have no way of knowing if she would have ignored us completely or even killed Wesley when he tried to contact her."

"And if the vampires get to him before Cara does?"

"They won't. In any case, he and those he works with are hardly incapable of killing a few vampires."

"Sir." Roberts looked like he had indigestion.

"The vampires were going to be in Los Angeles regardless and are probably going to massacre the Henderson family as they have done every other family. We're running out of options." His temper was beginning to show. "Cara needs a Watcher and she seems to have taken this as a personal mission to try to protect these people. Two birds, one stone."

"With all due respect, sir. She seems to be getting along without a Watcher."

Iverson opened a folder on his desk and tossed several glossy photographs onto the surface. "Does that look like she's getting along? She looks like she's been mauled by a bear." The photos still left a sickening taste in the back of his throat when he looked at them. He could remember the shy girl who had first come to the Council more than a year before. The long dark hair pulled into a curling ponytail that had bounced as she walked was now chopped short in ragged chunks. The soft smile and gentle laughter that had seemed forever a part of the original Cara Sewell was nowhere in sight. Her face was hard lines and healing wounds. Tattered rags of clothing were covered with dried blood and silver tape. Without a Watcher or any sort of support system, she had become someone that he didn't recognize. They did this. This was the result of their meddling.

"And Wesley?"

"Will have all the information that we do about these families." He stared down at the pictures and shook his head tiredly. "No one can survive the life she's living. It's brutal. Beyond brutal, Roberts." For the first time, he was beginning to seriously question their methods. "I'm beginning to believe that Miss Summers is right."

"I'm sure our photographer simply caught her after a particularly bad fight." Roberts didn't sound as though he believed his own words.

"Every minute of every day is a particularly bad fight if you don't know any other way to live." He slid the photos back into the folder, casting one last look at the dirt and blood streaked face staring up at him. It was so incongruous with his memories of her before she had begun the training that he could scarcely believe it was the same person. She was consigned to a life of pain and violence because of a few strands of DNA. She was chosen. For what? To die in the streets where no one knew her name or the sweet tempered girl she had once been. Destiny was surprisingly bitter. The failure of the last Council was that it had never seen these girls as anything but chess pieces to be moved about and regarded as expendable. He had wanted to do better than his predecessors. Thus far, he and his colleagues had only managed to do more damage.

"We haven't been able to confirm the rumors that Spike has returned to New Orleans but the team seemed quite hopeful," Roberts changed the subject uncomfortably.

"It would truly be a spot of luck if we could finally get to him." Iverson pulled himself away from his thoughts on Cara and rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Two o'clock in the morning, sir." Roberts paused. "Most everyone has gone home for the night."

"Why don't you head home?" Iverson gave him an encouraging wave. "I'm up to my ears in paperwork over the disaster at the Slayer Academy. The police are still swarming over the building and I can't tell them it was a demon. Not yet anyway."

"Thank you. Do try to get some rest, sir." Roberts was gone, soft footsteps receding down the hallway into the night.

Sinking into his chair, Iverson closed his eyes for a moment, dreading the stack of forms he had to continue filling out. Who were the victims, where were they from, where were their families. Their families were dead. All of them. Killing the girls at the Academy had merely been another step in eliminating the Slayer lines. Why? Maybe whatever evil was behind the atrocities didn't need a reason. Perhaps it merely wanted to kill them. He was glad he hadn't seen the crime scene photos. Crime scene indeed, as if Scotland Yard had any hope at all of catching whatever had murdered every living soul in the building. There were only three Slayers left. Buffy, Faith, and Cara. All that was left of the Slayer line.

If they could hold off the end of the world long enough, the lines could be regenerated. He smiled a little bitterly at that thought. Given Buffy's historical preference in lovers it would be a very long time before she produced any offspring. Faith was showing the same tendency although her history was much more traditional. Cara wouldn't know what to do with a man. He was exhausted enough to find it quite humorous.

Reluctantly, he turned back to the stack of papers, stretching his fingers briefly to work out some of the cramped muscles. Maybe there was something about being a Slayer, something in their demonic genes that attracted them to vampires. They had never been able to discover what type of demon essence was given to the first Slayer. There were many theories, the most popular being that it had been a vampire's. It made sense. And it could possibly explain Buffy and Faith's attraction to the vampire. A basic, molecular recognition of similarity. Perhaps the demon part of their DNA was trying to find another like itself. Theories.

Iverson tapped the tip of his pen lightly on the desk, staring into the shadows of his office and listening to the sirens outside on the streets. The leaders of the nations were not yet listening to them. In time they would have no choice. He had hope that they would be able to contain and eliminate Spike before the world reached that point.

Spike.

The pen stilled and he blinked into the darkness. Spike had killed two Slayers, three if Faith was counted, and had followed and harassed more than that. By all accounts the vampire had been obsessed with them. And now he had formed another relationship with a Slayer. Could it be the same question? Spike was drawn to Slayers, Slayers were drawn to him. Was it for the same reason? Spike had managed to surprise them, elude them, defy their attempts to understand and to classify. What little they knew about the vampire was fraught with error. Sired by Drusilla, what year? There were several different dates for his rebirth and there was nothing known about him before he had been turned, as though he had sprung from nowhere. Many of the historians had believed that he had been a pickpocket or working class. His activities other than killing Slayers had gone unrecorded until he had been implanted with the behavior modification chip in Sunnydale.

Frowning, he switched to his computer and began searching through the online archives the Council had created at his insistence. One could only take so much of a musty old library. Other vampires had pursued a fair share of Slayers but none with the single-mindedness or success that Spike had. Squinting at the small text, Iverson opened one of the databases and began the tedious task of wading through hundreds of arcane references. If there was nothing wrong with Buffy or Faith, nothing in Slayer genes that drew them to vampires, then there was only one possibility left. The anomaly, the source of their unholy attraction was Spike himself. What about William the Bloody distinguished him from the millions of undead? The soul? After all, Buffy had been involved with Angel and there had been rumors of his being pursued by Faith as well. Unfortunately, if he had the dates correct in his mind, Buffy's liaison with Spike had occurred before he had obtained his soul, which made the soul theory difficult to follow. There had to be something else.

Pausing to rummage through his desk for a note pad, he began to jot down dates and names as he scrolled through the database. The first objective was to discover if any other Slayers had maintained relationships with vampires. If there were none, then he could assume that it was Spike who was different rather than Buffy and Faith. The mountain of paperwork was forgotten on his desk. Those girls would still be dead in the morning and Scotland Yard would still be light years away from finding their murderer. Finding answers to interesting puzzles was what Iverson did best and Spike was proving to be a fascinating enigma.

* * *

"Angel's on his way." Willow settled the last suitcase into the trunk of her car.

"Are you sure about this Will?"

"Of course. Can't let you have all the cross-country fun." She grinned at Buffy. "Besides, you need someone who can drive. Other than Dawn, who's just as likely to end up in a ditch."

"I can hear you," Dawn called from the backseat. "I still have ears."

"Very large ears. Bat radar ears." Buffy rolled her eyes. "I just have to say good bye to Giles. He's still pouting because I wouldn't let him come."

"He misses the big action sequences. Although, considering how many times he got hit in the head, it's probably a good thing he'll be staying here." Willow jangled the keys as she climbed into the driver's seat.

"I'll hurry." Buffy took a deep breath to steady her nerves before she faced her Watcher. Of course, he hadn't been her Watcher for years but she still felt like she was stepping up to be lectured. In a kind, fatherly way of course, because the Englishman was actually fond of her. How had that happened? From someone who had thought she would wear cats on her feet if told to by a fashion magazine, he had become quite attached to her. She was grateful for Giles. For what he'd done for her. But they'd grown apart as the years went by and she wondered if he actually realized she wasn't sixteen any longer. Now she had to explain why she was putting him out to pasture. It wasn't going to be pretty.

"Did you forget something?" Giles glanced up from his mug mid-sip, a book held open in his other hand. It was the exact same position she had seen him in more times than she could possibly remember. Giles Research Pose Number twenty-seven. She wished she had a photograph of them all. Each lovable, if at times stuffy and British, quirk that made Giles Giles. The glasses, even the clucking noise he was going to make when she started the inevitable conversation.

"Buffy?"

She felt awkward, closing the door front door quietly behind her. "Thank you. For all this research. I know that I don't thank you enough for what you do. Especially since you really don't want to be doing it. I know you don't actually want to help Spike."

"It's not that I don't want to help him." Giles shook his head. "I just don't see another way."

"You didn't see another way with Dawn either. But I found one. I'll find one this time too."

"At what cost? That's what worries me, Buffy. I worry that you'll sacrifice too much for him. I won't pretend to understand. I don't. I'm not sure I can even begin."

"I have to try."

Giles sighed, sitting down on one of the steps and watching her thoughtfully. "What I want for you, for your life, will probably never happen. What you deserve may never happen. But it is more than a vampire can ever give you, even with a soul. The same holds true for Faith. It's upsetting to watch you, both of you, let your hearts lead you down paths that can only end in heartbreak. It's not what I ever wanted for either of you."

"He doesn't deserve to die."

"I can't begin to fathom what a creature like Spike does deserve. But you have to remember that he is not and never will be a human being. He is still a vampire and at a very basic level, he is still a demon." He closed the book slowly. "Vampires and humans are fundamentally incompatible."

"I know that, Giles."

"Then perhaps you are the best one to speak with Faith. About what has to happen with Spike if we don't find any other answers." He took a sip of tea. "You had to send Angel to a hell dimension, you understand the choices and their ramifications."

"I'm not going to ask Faith to kill Spike. I will never do that to anyone. I know how hard it is." Buffy heard the hard edge in her voice and tried to relax. Deep breaths. "I'm going to ask Spike about giving up his soul. That's as far as this train goes."

"And if it's not enough?"

"It has to be."

"He is just a vampire, Buffy. One vampire."

"And the fate of the world has been on the shoulders of one girl for nearly ten years. My shoulders. Don't tell me that one person can't make a difference because I'm living proof of it." Buffy crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "I have died twice to save this world."

"I'm concerned that you're not seeing the situation clearly."

"That's why you're not coming with us, Giles."

"What are you saying?" He frowned over his mug.

"You're not coming because I can't trust you to trust me." Buffy watched his face carefully, trying not to let the hurt in his eyes sway her. "I can't trust you not to go behind my back and try to kill him."

"I wouldn't." He seemed a little offended that she didn't trust him but guilty enough for Buffy to know that she was right.

"What happened to Ben, Giles?" She caught the flicker of surprise before he looked down into his mug. "Did you think I wouldn't check? That I wouldn't look for him. Make sure he was never coming back. Did you think I wouldn't find out that he died the same day I did? What happened to him?"

"It had to be done, Buffy. Glory would have returned and destroyed us all. Revenge, spite, or just because she wanted to. You know that as well as I do." Giles set the mug down on the floor. It wasn't an admission of guilt but it was all she needed to know.

"We can't know that."

"I do. There was no other way to make sure you were safe. That is what I'm trying to tell you. You have to be willing to make those decisions."

"I am."

"I don't see it." He shook his head. "You're blinded by your emotions, your feelings for Spike."

"There has to be another way," she repeated stubbornly. "I understand why you killed Ben but it wasn't your place to make that decision. You think I'm not ready to make those decisions but I am. I have been this all these years. You just never saw it." She turned away, one hand on the doorknob. She was getting nowhere with Giles.

"Prove it." There was a challenge in his voice.

"Killing Angel wasn't enough for you?" Buffy bit down hard on her lower lip to control her anger. "It will never be enough for you. As long as you have no respect for me or my decisions. The fact that you disagree doesn't make me wrong. Deal with it."

"Showing mercy doesn't always make you right." Giles stood up, beginning to pace. "I know it's not a good option but it's an option. You have to admit that much. What happens if you can't remove the soul in time? What about Dawn?"

"I'm not going to do this, Giles. I won't argue with you anymore." The doorknob twisted in her hand. "Willow and Dawn are waiting."

"You may not have a choice. Buffy. You must realize that you might not be able to save them both."

Buffy smiled as she stepped through the doorway. "I know I don't have all the answers. But how am I supposed to figure this whole crazy world out if you don't trust me to make my own decisions? Maybe they won't be the right ones and maybe I'll make a lot of mistakes. But I've got to do this on my own. I need to you let go."

"Buffy?" His voice was barely a whisper as he finally realized what she was asking.

"I'm not a little girl. I'm a Slayer. Let me do my job." Buffy hesitated again. "Angel will be here to keep the creepy crawlies in check and I'll try to check in every day. If Faith or Spike call, let them know we're on our way to them. Don't say anything about Dawn, she doesn't want Spike to know yet." She tried to give him a comforting smile. "You're Giles and I love you. But you've got to learn to trust me."

The door closed behind her with a sense of finality. It had been long time coming. Cutting the ties without severing the bond. At least she hoped that she hadn't hurt him too badly. She just needed him to see her for who she was. Even if she was still a little fuzzy about that part herself.

"How'd it go?" Willow gave her a sympathetic smile as she climbed into the car and pulled on her seat belt.

"A little on the side of ouch but I think he'll recover." Buffy checked the backseat quickly, seeing Dawn flipping casually through a magazine. "He's resilient that way."

"Good old Giles. I think maybe he needs to retire."

"Do Watchers retire?"

"Sure they do. They go back to being museum curators and librarians. Much safer." Willow fiddled with the radio dial for a second. "Hey Dawnie, why don't you pick out some road worthy music? We should do it right. Since it's probably the last chance we'll get to do this. Could we stop at the Grand Canyon, Buff?"

"I don't think so. Kind of a business trip." Buffy handed the CD case to Dawn. "But we'll do this again after we save the world. Full sight seeing tour of America the Beautiful for the Scooby gang."

"Think Angel and Cordy will be all right? With all the extra perkiness?"

"They'll be fine. No worries for the vamp and shiny half-demon." Buffy took a deep breath and relaxed into the seat. "I haven't left Sunnydale since I ran away after Acathla. Feels good. Weird but good." She gave the Now Leaving Sunnydale sign a small wave, thinking back to that bus trip to the city. She had wondered a hundred times if things would have been better if she'd stayed in the studio apartment, waitressing at the diner, and killing the occasional slave driver demon. There was a strange sense of excitement regardless of their dire circumstances. Off to see the world, endless strips of highway and nothing but four wheels and the wind in their hair. It was liberating.

"We should have done this years ago," Willow said, echoing her thoughts.

"Better late than never." Dawn reached forward, slipping a CD into the player. Her fingers tapped the back of Buffy's seat as the music started. "And we deserve a vacation. Especially if the world is going to end, don't you think?"

"You're right." Buffy grinned. "New Orleans. Here we come."


	26. Spider To The Fly

**Spider To The Fly**

The city of New Orleans welcomes me back with the wail of sirens and the smell of water soaked ashes. At least it's nighttime. Just barely. Hands tucked in my pockets, I'm half dazed as I make my way through the streets. Bloody Oracle head case had to land me back on the other side of town. At least the walk gives me time to think. With each step, I'm getting more depressed and more angry. It was goddamn ridiculous that one vampire, one demon, one fucking anything, had such an effect on the whole world. Whoever made that rule was a sodding idiot. There were billions of people, trillions of demons, more dimensions and worlds that I could count even if I knew about all of them. How did one vampire have such power? And why the fucking hell was it me?

I hate this. There aren't words for how much I hate this. I'd rather go back to my days of murder and railroad spikes with soul intact and suffer the guilt than have this bullshit decision in front of me. Damn Oracle had made that clear enough. It was my choice. Always had been, always would be. There are screams off to my right. Probably some idiot tourist getting eaten. I don't fucking care. The whole world's going to get flushed down the universal crapper and it was my fault. I don't know enough curses in any language to express my frustration with this bloody mess.

Luckily, the first creature that crosses my path is a demon. A nasty one at that. Breaking a few bones for good measure, I vent my dissatisfaction with fate by rendering him to a bloody pulp and cracking his neck. There aren't enough demons, not enough violence in this world to ease my fury and despair. That's what it really is. Despair. That everything I've done, all my suffering, has been for nothing. That after all is said and done, I'm still better off dead.

Fuck it. Let the world fall in. Crash, burn. I couldn't care less. All I want is to get back to Faith and get the fuck out of this town. Let the demons come. Let it all fall apart. Can't possibly be more of a pain in my ass than the world is already. Angel has the Powers intervening on his behalf, making sure he stays undusted. Why don't I have a patron saint? Or demon, however that works. Why doesn't anyone out there give a fuck that I don't deserve this? That I deserve a break. A little intervention would be nice here and there. I'm not asking for anything fancy, just a nudge in the right direction and maybe a lucky star or two to shine down on my pitiful existence.

What a waste. Stop eating people, fight against every instinct and impulse I have, win back my soul. For what? If I'd wanted to die, I'm sure Harris would have obliged me years ago. Or even Harmony. Hell, there was no end to the line of people who had wanted me dead at some point in time. The demon hadn't even fought against the soul. Not much anyway. Not the way Angelus did and probably still does. I really hate this world. Fate's a bitch. If I ever find Dru, I'm going to kick her ass for making me.

Could I live with myself if I let Dawn die? Knowing I could have saved her. Would it weigh too heavily on my conscience? What about the rest of the Scoobies? The rest of the world. I'm not cut out for this. I've never been the leader, the Champion, the White Knight. Legendary dark warrior sure, I was good at killing people. Doesn't mean I'm capable of shouldering this kind of responsibility. Bugger this. I'm not going to do it.

Rounding the corner, my heels striking angrily against the pavement, I see the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. Part of Bourbon has been blocked off. With a frown, I push my way through the crowd of curious onlookers to find out what's going on. Full Moon Rising Occult Books and Supplies has been reduced to a smoldering framework, completely gutted by fire. Sick with worry, I edge my way to the tip of the crowd and strain to catch what the police are saying. Explosives used. No bodies found. I allow myself a moment of relief, knowing that Faith and Verek weren't among the blackened rubble. At the same time, true fear begins to sink its teeth into my heart. The Oracle, Alatheia, had told me they wouldn't be here. That my enemy had taken them. She didn't say which enemy. Fortunately this isn't the Hellmouth and the list of usual suspects is blissfully short. I should have killed that bastard before I left New Orleans.

I turn toward the lake and the last known location of the undead monster who had slithered away like a snake. Maybe I'll chop him into pieces. How many would it take before he dusts? I've always wondered. Maybe a holy water bath. Burn the skin off of his cowardly bones. If he has Faith, he's going to wish he was never sired. If he doesn't? I'll kill the motherfucker anyway.

Finding him is easy. Twist a few arms, stake a few vamps; I'm on my way with a song in my heart. Once out of the populated areas, I vamp out and thrill to the siren song of the Hellmouth, if that's what it is. All I care is that it pumps the bloodlust to a high I've never known. I could take on the world. I am the world. Here comes Spike. There isn't even a wiggle from the soul. He's just as furious as I am for getting fucked in the ass by whatever Powers that don't know shit about anything are up there pulling my strings. He got dragged out of somewhere soft and warm to time share with a demon. For no good reason. I hope I'm screwing up a few more plans, breaking a few more of those goddamn laws no one knows about until afterwards. I hope I'm fucking things up so royally that I'll take this whole bloody world with me. Every last one of the self-righteous, hypocritical, holier-than-thou, rotten lot of sodding Happy Meals on pathetic stick legs just asking to be eaten because they're so fucking stupid.

Terminator guard doesn't even manage to get a punch in before I grab hold of his neck and use his thick head as a battering ram. Leaving him sticking limply out of the concrete wall, his skull crushed inside the crumbling cement, I stomp through the parking garage and into the familiar elevator. Third bloody floor. The lights flick on and off, little bell dinging annoyingly as I wait for it to climb the distance. I'm through the doorway before it has finished opening and halfway across the room before Cable's guards stop me with the warning of a few well-aimed crossbows.

"Where is she?" I growl angrily.

"Spike. Nice to see you back in town." Cable greets me coldly from behind his desk. "I trust you had a pleasant vacation."

"Blood and peaches. Tell me where she is."

"We're civilized people here, Spike." He leaves his desk and moves to the side, retrieving a crystal decanter. "Drink? I like a little scotch in my blood."

"Didn't come here to play tea party."

"I know. You're here because He wants you."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You're a puppet, Spike." Cable laughs as he swirls the ice in his drink. "And it's time to meet the puppet master." He nods to his guards. I barely have time to tense before I feel something sting my right thigh. Looking down, I see a familiar green dart. Bloody hell, I hate those things.

* * *

It was hot. Humid. The streets pulsed with life and energy that Cara hadn't felt in the Midwest. Los Angeles was unique. Dirty, loud, angry and trying desperately to be the opposite. Bright sun, tanned skin, perfect faces. All a facade for the darkness that she knew lay just beneath the veil of night, a second past sunset and a layer of skin beneath innocent faces. She felt awkward. It wasn't hard. Even the homeless of L.A. were better dressed than she was and she stood out like a neon light, attracting the interest of the city's underbelly.

The third man who tried to talk to her using strange phrases and false sympathy was stopped short by the barrel of her gun against his throat. She didn't have to speak. He vanished into the darkness and left her alone. Although she wouldn't have killed him, he was an innocent, she was glad he no longer followed her as she moved through the streets.

She had dusted the first two groups of vampires without interrogating them. Determined to get more information, she had saved the vamp in charge, tied him up and persuaded him to talk. That was how she knew about Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Her Watcher. At least the Council had given him the task of being her Watcher. She didn't need one. The vampires had been determined to find him, torture whatever information they could out of him, and hopefully prevent her from coming after any more of the hit squads. She'd given the leader a few extra bruises before she killed him just because she wanted to.

If Wesley had answers then she needed to get them. That meant catching the next train out of the pan handle state and following the tracks west. At least the nights were warm enough that she didn't need to look hard for somewhere to sleep. Anywhere that wasn't a puddle or covered with molding trash was good enough.

Angel Investigations was in the phonebook. She ripped the section of the map that she needed out of the heavy volume outside a convenience store and headed into the unfamiliar streets. The city was larger than anything she'd seen and even with a map, it took her a day and a half to search out the right address. She could only hope that she arrived before the vampires did. She had a lead on them since she'd killed the first group heading to the coast but they would move fast and probably recruit local demons who knew the city.

Glancing down at the map in her hand and back up to the warehouse on the right side of the road, she peered into the darkness as she looked for an address. Light was glowing cheerfully from the windows. Several cars turned down the street, sending her hurrying off the road and skirting the edge of the adjacent buildings. Angel was the name of the souled vampire. She had read about him at the Academy before leaving England and knew that he was in Los Angeles. Perhaps this was his detective agency. It was a strange world where a vampire could be a detective. She had long given up trying to make sense of the world around her. It didn't need to make sense to be a Slayer.

She watched the warehouse for nearly an hour. People went in. People left. The lights in the windows turned on and off, moving from one plane of glass to the other. When the ambient traffic died down, she crept forward and prowled the far side of the building. The trip to the coast had given her time to heal completely, her movements smooth and pain free. Boots whispered against the cement as she eased into a crouch, peering through one of the ground floor windows.

Two figures. One male, one female. The man was medium height and build with the shadow of a forming beard and neatly trimmed hair. He was dressed casually in jeans and a button up shirt. Standing at his side and pointing at something on a yellow notepad was a thin woman with long brown hair and glasses. He frowned as she gestured with one hand, talking animatedly. Glancing up at the second level, Cara noticed several offices and the shadow of another figure against one of the inner windows. There were three cars in the covered parking area. Minimum three people but there could be more. She waited.

Within ten minutes, a dark skinned man sauntered out of the office and down the stairs. Tossing a cordless telephone from hand to hand, he joined the conversation. His voice carried better than the other two and Cara caught bits and pieces of words. He was asking them what they wanted on their pizza. She remembered having pizza at Buffy's house. Extra cheese. Her grip on the stake in her hand tightened involuntarily. They appeared to be human. Which one was Wesley? Scanning the rest of the room, she noticed the large collection of weaponry. All in immaculate condition. Silently, she left her window and crept around the corner to get a better look at the arsenal. It wouldn't hurt to get a glimpse of what she could be facing. Swords, battle-axes, guns. Every type of weapon was on display. She was impressed.

The old brickwork had deep grooves between the blocks, lending themselves to easy hand and foot holds. Moving away from the window, she tucked her stake back into the worn knapsack and began scaling the outer wall. Hand over hand, she pulled herself up. There was an open window on the second floor, leading into one of the darkened offices. Careful not to make unnecessary noise, each motion slow and controlled, she eased herself through the open window and onto the floor inside. Crouching low behind the large wooden desk, she waited patiently in the darkness as her heartbeat returned to its regular rhythm.

It was elegantly, if sparsely, furnished. Masculine. Classical tastes. She took note of the statues and the paintings on the wall. Old books with ornate bindings and supernatural content in the bookshelves; heavy drapes on either side of the windows. Most likely the vampire's office. Angel. Curiously, she wondered if the records were as wrong in their accounts of Angel as they had been about William the Bloody. The Slayer of Slayers who had chosen not to kill her, who had and hadn't killed Faith. She shook away those thoughts. They didn't matter.

Hinges creaked as she edged the door open. She couldn't hear any voices. Quietly, she slipped through the opening, moving forward on fingers and toes as she followed the wall. The familiar smell of pizza wafted up from below. They were eating. Soft music cheerfully played in the background. Toward the center of the pathway, she leaned out far enough to see through the banister. The three humans were sitting on the floor, surrounding two open pizza boxes. A green skinned demon with red hair had joined them, lounging easily on the floor. Strange. Deathwok demons were fierce warriors. This one, dressed in a darker green suit, appeared to be quite relaxed among the humans. She pushed forward, straining to hear their conversation.

"Wouldn't hurt to have more muscle around here," the demon commented. "With Angel and Cordy babysitting the Hellmouth."

"I just hope getting Dawn away from the Hellmouth helps." Shaking her head, the woman tapped her notepad. "And I may actually have some hard data about the energy waves. It's buried in the noise but I think I can use a transform to bring it out."

With a shrug, the man with the shaved head reached for another slice of pizza. "Don't mean to be the doubting Thomas but what good would that actually do for us?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted.

"Many rituals are bound to disturb the energy patterns," answered the second man in a soft English accent. That must the Watcher. "We could track them. Or be able to sense the use of portals in the area."

"So basically, it's just really cool and I wouldn't understand. Like all that string mumbo jumbo with the alphabet soup dimensions."

The woman laughed and tossed a napkin at him. "You would understand it if you paid attention."

Cara listened as they bantered back and forth. It reminded her of the group in Sunnydale. In fact, they made several references to Buffy and her friends. That was unexpected. How were the two groups connected? She hadn't gotten any other information about the man who could be her Watcher. She still didn't believe she needed one at all but there was the possibility that he could teach her more about this world. About why Buffy Summers fit into it and Cara didn't. About the senselessness of one girl against legions of the undead. About pizza and brownies. And those fat-free yogurt cups that Willow was fond of.

"When's this Slayer supposed to show up?"

"Iverson didn't know. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to contact her." The Watcher wiped his hands neatly. "I'm half convinced that they're actually sending her here to kill us all. After what happened in Sunnydale, it's hard to trust the Council."

"Like you ever trusted the Council, Wes."

"In the beginning, I did."

"Before they tried to kill you and Faith?"

Cara stopped mid crouch, frowning at the change in conversation. The pieces finally clicked into place. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had been Faith's Watcher. He had been a disgrace to the Council for losing Faith and later joining Angel. Her information was sketchy but she remembered reading about him. They had sent her to a Watcher who had been responsible for a rogue Slayer? Did they believe that she was like Faith? Was she like Faith? The Council had considered Faith and Wesley two of their greatest failures. Did they also believe her to be a failure? For some reason it wasn't a pleasant thought.

She curled against the wall, pulling her knees against her chest. The cloth was stiff with old blood and tape. Her skin was dirty, knuckles scraped and scabbed over. Frowning, she remembered the blue jeans and blouses Buffy had worn. Cara had thought they were frivolous and inappropriate for slaying. Was there something wrong with the way she looked? What did it matter what she wore? Suddenly picturing all of the curious looks she had gotten from strangers, she reached tentatively for her hair, tugging at one of the dark tufts. She'd cut it without using a mirror. Did it matter? She didn't know what mattered anymore.

The easy conversation below her was muted, punctuated with laughter or sudden exclamation; it was worlds away from the sober exchanges that Cara had known. Avery clucked over her wounds and weapons, the nuns pitied her, random strangers thanked her in voices just as torn as the fabric on their bodies. But there was no laughter in her world. It was called friendship. Maybe. She wasn't sure. Did every human being have someone to laugh and eat pizza with? Or was this rare, unique? So many people were alone. She saw them every day, staring into empty spaces that should be filled with friendly faces and something that she couldn't identify, couldn't name, and didn't understand. Something was missing.

Her legs began to cramp from their tight position against her chest. Stretching them silently, she considered her options. The vampires would be coming and it was her duty to protect the innocents. She wasn't sure if it applied to the demon but he seemed to be a friend and ally. Impulsively, she added him to the list of people to watch over. Should she make herself known or continue to stay out of sight? Staying hidden was safer but wouldn't get her the answers she needed.

A loud bleating ended her reverie and she tensed, peeking over the edge to see the group below scramble to their feet. The bald man was already moving, pizza left behind, and pulling a crossbow down from the wall and looked around quickly. "Vamp alert!"

"Angel said there was a nest a few blocks to the north getting a little frisky." Even the demon picked out a weapon, holding it a bit awkwardly. "Glad you cats had that security system installed."

"They must be crazy to attack here."

Wesley twirled a sharpened wooden pole easily in a figure eight pattern, warming up his wrist. "They know Angel's gone."

Cara heard the sound of breaking glass. The vampires must have broken through the windows below her. She could hear growling and watched the humans ready themselves for the attack. No quips, no jokes. She focused on the Englishman. Cool, confident. There wasn't a trace of fear on his face and he held his weapon with skill. Keeping low, she reached back into her knapsack and pulled the familiar weight of the pistols into her hands.

"Which one of you is the Watcher?" A low growl rumbled through the room.

"Just stepped out. We'll tell him you dropped by." The crossbow fired with a sharp click and the whistle of the bolt flying through the air.

The ground floor turned into chaos. Cara counted nearly a dozen vampires rushing out from beneath the walkway. The humans were handling themselves well but they wouldn't be able to fight all of them. She needed the practice and moving targets were always better. Pushing off of the wall, she vaulted over the banister, landing on the floor below with a thud. Several of the vampires turned around, yellow eyes glaring at her before they charged.

Adrenaline flooded into her system. She struck out at the first vampire, boot connecting with his chest as she simultaneously buried a bullet in his skull. He crumpled to the ground, still undead but immobile. Slipping out of the grasp of another, she shattered his kneecaps with two shots and moved on to the next. Blood sprayed across her knuckles as she slammed the gun into the side of the monster's face, pivoting and lifting to catch his head in the crook of her leg. She pushed off, twisting his neck with a sickening crack as she swung over his back. Landing firmly, she whirled around and fired into the backs of the remaining vampires still attacking, careful not to send an errant bullet into one of the humans. Vampires exploded into dust. It was hardly a fair fight. Los Angeles vampires were lazy with the heat and the ease of finding prey.

Ignoring the shocked and wary looks from the humans, she turned back to the vampires she left on the ground. One of the guns slipped back into the bag and she pulled out the stake to finish them off. It just felt better. More natural. When they were all dust, she slowly turned toward the humans and watched them carefully.

"You must be Cara," the woman said nervously.

Cara didn't respond. She didn't know who to trust. When Wesley stepped forward, she lifted her gun quickly. He stopped and raised his hands in surrender.

"We won't hurt you," he said soothingly. "I'm Wesley. This is Fred, Gunn, and Lorne."

Cara frowned as he introduced them. The others waved or nodded their greeting. Keeping the gun pointed toward them, she glanced around at the broken glass and vampire dust. She could leave. She had killed the vampires, done her duty. She didn't need a Watcher.

"We just want to talk with you. Perhaps we can help you."

"I don't need you," Cara responded stiffly.

"That's quite obvious. But we might be able to help you find what you're looking for." Wesley made no attempt to get closer. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

Cara hesitated and glanced at the empty pizza boxes. It had been several hours since she had eaten a slice of bread and an apple handed out at a homeless shelter. She wondered what it would be like to eat a real meal again. To not search out food and shelter like the rest of the people who lived on the streets. Was that too much luxury for a Slayer? Like the dream of a bed that had soft pillows and a blanket. A warm fuzzy blanket like the one Dawn had tossed carelessly on the couch of the Summers home seemed a luxury beyond imagining now.

"We have tons of stuff. Bagels, coffee." The woman smiled timidly. "And lots of places are open all day long so if you wanted something else. Chinese, Mexican. What do you like?"

Cara blinked; she was pointing a gun at them and the woman was asking her what kind of food she liked. There were types of food? Confused, she took a step back and tried to shake off the strange feeling pooling in her stomach. She didn't belong here. She belonged on the streets, in the shadows, with the eyes staring out of cardboard castles and clinging to life without hope. This was too soft, it would take away from her calling, distract her from her duty. Or would it? She didn't know. Friends, family. Slayers didn't have those things. They didn't need them. Buffy had them.

"Wes?" The man, Cara wasn't sure which was Fred and which was Gunn, glanced toward Wesley. "Don't mean to sound like a stereotypical male, but I thought Slayers were supposed to be, you know." He gestured helplessly. "It's just that, well, Faith and Buffy, they're major league hotties. Figured being beautiful was part of the package."

"Gunn. Not exactly the right thing to tell the nice lady with the gun," the demon whispered loudly, giving her a tense smile.

Cara watched them. Humans were strange. Everything was strange. She was tired of not knowing what was going on. Of not understanding. She lowered the gun slowly, keeping it loose at her side in case they weren't actually as nice as they seemed. Nothing was ever what it seemed.

"We have tea!" the woman who might be named Fred exclaimed suddenly. "If you like tea. You're from England, right? I don't think it's real English tea, but it's better than nothing, right?"

"Does Buffy trust you?" Her question seemed to surprise them and she saw Wesley's expression change quickly.

"She does. You could call her and ask if you like." He motioned to the handset resting on the floor. "We're not going to hurt you or try to kill you." He took a hesitant step toward her. "I know the Council hasn't exactly been honest with you. Just have something to eat and stay the night. You can leave in the morning if you want to. We won't stop you."

Deciding that she was relatively safe, Cara slipped the gun and stake into her pack. "Brownies." They stared at her blankly. "I like brownies," she added, uncomfortable with their scrutiny.

"We might have some. I'll check." The woman smiled again before hurrying through one of the doorways.

"Do you need a change of clothing?" Wesley asked.

Cara looked down at her clothes and frowned. She didn't know. "Do I?"

"We'll find something for you. Would you like a shower? There's a bathroom upstairs." Wesley took another step in her direction. "Occasionally, we have clients who need a place to stay for a few days."

"How 'bout I get the spare set up?" the green demon asked brightly. "Just heading for the stairs, sweetheart, no need to pull out the pistolas again." He kept his hands up as he crossed to the stairs and started up to the second floor.

Cara stood stiffly, suddenly very conscious of the dirt on her skin and bloodstains on her clothes. She didn't understand why or how but she knew that there was something wrong with them. Something wrong with her. She could feel it and see it in the way they looked at her. The way people looked at the men and women who lived on the streets. More than the misplaced pity she got from the nuns. More than the thinly veiled disgust from neatly pressed suits and leather shoes. They looked at her as though she was something foreign and dangerous. She wanted someone to tell her why. Tell her what was wrong with her. Explain why she felt the way she did.

"Here you go," the woman chirped as she returned. "No brownies but there were a couple of chocolate donuts. And a sandwich from lunch that I didn't eat because I changed by mind and had the soup instead. You're welcome to it if you want it. It's vegetarian. And we can always order something for you."

Cara watched curiously as she approached, holding a paper plate out nervously. Taking the plate, she stared down at the wrapped sandwich and chocolate donuts. Glancing up at the group, she remembered they had sat on the floor in a circle to eat their meal. Easing down into a cross-legged position, she curiously unwrapped the sandwich and examined the sprouts clinging to the bread. Picking it up carefully, she tentatively took a bite. It was different than anything she'd had before. Delicious. Suddenly starving, she began to eat in earnest.

"She looks like she hasn't eaten in days," the woman whispered. Cara didn't care that she was talking about her. She didn't understand half of what they said anyway.

"She probably hasn't." Wesley was frowning. "Perhaps Lorne can read her. Help us get a better idea of what's happened to her. Are there any spare clothes for her?"

"She's pretty tall but I think we have some that might work."

"Find something comfortable, loose. Something she could fight in."

"Do you think she'll need to?"

"I don't think she knows how to do anything else." Wesley's face was unreadable. "She'll feel more comfortable if she's not restricted." The woman disappeared up the stairs.

Gunn, or Fred, moved closer to Wesley. "Probably shouldn't have made that comment. I'm sure she'll clean up. New hair cut and she'll be fine."

"I don't think looks are important to her." Wesley shook his head. "She's been on her own for weeks."

"Why do I get the feeling the Watchers weren't giving us the whole story?"

"They rarely do. Just make sure to give her space. And don't make any sudden moves."

Cara finished off the sandwich and started on the donuts. They weren't as good as brownies but it was still better than stale rolls from the handout line. After she had cleaned the plate, she looked up to find the entire group watching her intently. The woman held out a stack of clothing, waiting until Cara got to her feet and took them.

"I'll show you where the shower is. We don't have anything fancy, just soap and shampoo."

Cara followed the woman up the stairs, idly listening to her cheerful chatter. They reminded her of Sunnydale. Strange and human. If Buffy trusted them, maybe she could too.

* * *

"She's lovely."

Ares stepped out of the shadows as the image of Chronos solidified on the opposite side of the bed. He acknowledged the presence of the Incarnation of Time with a nod, returning his gaze to the sleeping form of the Slayer. She was curled among the blankets like a child, innocent and full of life. Blood and dirt had washed away to reveal unevenly tanned skin, scars, and bruises. A smile raised the corner of her lips even in sleep and one hand clutched the corner of the pillow as though frightened it would disappear.

"As fierce a Slayer as I have ever seen," Chronos said softly, tilting his head to the side as he watched the girl.

"She has the heart of a true warrior," Ares responded with pride.

"And she deserves the death of a true warrior."

"It is the way of this world. The way of honor."

"It is a pity," Chronos sighed. "Should she live, her children would undoubtedly be strong warriors as well. And it is always sad to lose one with such purity. Such power."

"There is no other way, comrade. Death comes to all soldiers." Ares shifted, his heavy boots brushing against the carpet and the sound of his heavy camouflage fatigues whispering in the darkness.

"And if she dies accidentally? Bad shrimp? Influenza?"

"She will not." Ares stiffened defensively. "She will die in battle. As is befitting her kind."

"You have no guarantee," Chronos said casually. "She could die in a hospital without any monsters or demons. Her heart could simply stop. Cease to beat."

Ares frowned. "Do you know her end?"

"Only the Fates know that. And they hardly keep us in the loop." The last was said with the taint of sarcasm. They certainly hadn't bothered to give any of them a heads up about Spike and that didn't boost his level of confidence in their attention to the detail. Too much time spent looking at the big picture, balancing the scales, and not enough following each of the threads to their logical conclusion.

"What do you want?" Ares may have been single minded but he wasn't stupid by any stretch of the imagination.

"Just pointing out the inevitable. You can't control her destiny."

"We cannot become involved in the affairs of man."

"Even for her?"

"Even for her." There was something akin to sadness in War's eyes as he turned his attention back to the Slayer. "There will be others."

"Not Slayers. There will be no more Slayers." Chronos brushed a hand over the girl's forehead without touching her. "She is one of the last. Only three will remain. The lines are being destroyed as we speak."

"That was not part of the bargain."

"It's a matter of interpretation." Chronos pulled the chair away from the wall and sat down. "No more Slayers could mean that once the three are gone, no more will be called. No more Slayers could mean that each and every one of them, and any chance of renewing the line, are eradicated from this world. It's all about angles."

"Caine," Ares growled. "He cannot do this. She is rightfully mine. The Slayers are mine."

"I'm afraid he can. He's well within the bounds of the agreement and no one really cares about this world. About this Slayer." He gestured to the bed and it's sleeping occupant. "It's a bit harsh, I agree, but the Fates deemed the trade worthy. This girl, this true warrior as you call her, and others like her, for one vampire with a soul."

"What?" It wasn't every day that the Incarnation of War was surprised. Chronos wished that he had a camera.

"Yes. I can see that you missed the memo. I heard there was a lovely amount of bloodshed in the deserts of Sumer. Or is it Iraq these days? I haven't been there in so long."

"One vampire?"

"With a soul. His demon conquered its nature. Joe was quite pleased. You know how he loves insurmountable odds beaten by the underdog." Ares' stance was so rigid that Chronos began to wonder if he'd frozen in place.

"It cannot be. She is beyond price."

"Unfortunately, that isn't for us to decide. Although I am inclined to agree with you." He watched the blankets rise and fall with her breathing. "A good haircut and some make-up and she'll be quite adorable. In an earthy sort of way."

"What can be done?" Each word was clipped and sharp as Ares began to pace, a caged tiger angry at the world outside his bars.

"Not a thing."

"Then why are you here, Chronos? I know you."

"As you said, we can't interfere." Chronos watched him for a moment, listening to the soft padding of his boots. It always amazed him how a form so large and powerful could be so quiet. "Even if we could, why would we? It's just one world among worlds without number." He saw War's dark eyes dance over the girl's face.

"A true warrior, a brave and courageous heart is rare," Ares began softly, slowing his pace and stopping at the side of the bed. "This world has become weak and cowardly. Even the Slayers have lost sight of the battle. But her." One large, calloused hand reached out to touch the healing wound on the Slayer's forehead. "She is pure."

"She may not remain so pure. This human world has a way of creeping into the most solid of hearts." Chronos smiled, knowing that it even he, an Incarnation, had not been impervious to the touch of humanity.

"Her soul has always been strong. She will remain so even when emotions and mankind have begun to reclaim her. I will not lose her." With a tenderness that seemed incongruous with the image of war incarnate, Ares combed his fingers through her dark hair. "The end of this world is coming. I have sensed it. She will fall."

"She doesn't have to."

"No one can stop Death."

"True. But even He is willing to bargain." Chronos stood up slowly. "You can save her."

"I cannot interfere."

"If you don't, she will not die a warrior's death."

Ares frowned, struggling internally as he looked back and forth between Time and the sleeping girl. "I do not understand. How can there be any other way? What can I do? My hands are bound."

"There is one thing you have control over, friend."

"I have only warfare."

"There is one more thing in your hands." Chronos began to fade into the darkness.

"What is that?"

"Peace."

Ares stood in the dark, watching the Slayer sleep. Trying to comprehend the staggering magnitude of Chronos' suggestion. It was true. He could not assure her the death and honor she deserved. This was her world and she would fight for it with every drop of blood in her body. His warrior. His warflower. This was her world. Strong fingers brushed through her hair one last time before he turned away. Turned his back on the girl lying on the bed. On the chaos and confusion that would soon overtake this world. Turning away from what he was and what he stood for. On war itself.


	27. To Be or Not To Be

To Be or Not To Be –

            _"She asleep?" Willow's voice was soft, lifting hopefully._

_            "Finally." Buffy pulled her cardigan tighter and adjusted the air conditioning again.  The allure of the open road had finally given way to the mind numbing boredom of endless white and yellow stripes.  Texas had been the worst.  Miles and miles of nothing in every direction.  As though they'd suddenly driven into a lifeless dimension of drab brown and dusty green.  Given the current state of the universe, she hadn't dismissed it as a real possibility._

_            "How long was the last one?"_

_            "Twenty five minutes and forty seven seconds.  Not counting the three hours of psycho babble afterwards that creeps me out more than the seizures."_

_            "Did you recognize any of it this time?" Willow spared a second to glance away from the road, her green eyes tired and worried._

_            "Thankfully no.  The first time she did it," Buffy shuddered.  "It was like she was channeling Spike.  Past Spike.  Evil Spike."_

_            "I think I recognized some of it.  Bits and pieces.  Things I remember people saying."_

_            "Like what?"_

_            Willow hesitated, her attention fixed on passing the slower car ahead of them.  "The part about the anvil."_

_            "Wiley Coyote?"_

_            "Yeah." She smiled.  It was the sad, haunting smile that Buffy had learned meant that she was remembering Darth Willow.  "Xander said that to me.  On the cliff."_

_            "Before the yellow crayon?"_

_            "I can't remember it that clearly anymore." She shook her head, red hair falling out of the barrette.  "I thought I'd never forget.  But it fades.  Even the pain and the guilt fade after a while.  They never go away but they stop hurting as much."_

_            "Good." Buffy bit her lip nervously, pulling out the CD case to distract her darkening thoughts.  "Will?"_

_            "Yeah?"_

_            "I know that I haven't…I mean, with the slaying and the schooling and taking care of Dawn." She sighed, flipping through CDs without actually seeing them.  "I haven't been the bestest best friend to you."_

_            "What are you talking about?"_

_            "I don't know what's going on with your life Willow.  Not really.  We talk, we have tea.  You listen to my problems and you help with patrolling.  When was the last time I asked you about your life?  And actually listened?" She finally picked a CD and slid it into the player.  "I don't know who your friends or coworkers are.  I don't know if there's anyone you've got your eye on.  I'm Non-Observy Buffy, Buffy with blinders on."_

_            "You're being too hard on yourself Buff.  We all get caught up in our own lives.  It's human."_

_            "We never talked.  About Tara.  Or Warren.  When you came back, we never really talked about it."_

_            "Not exactly breakfast conversation."_

_            "I feel as though I wasn't there for you."_

_            "Buffy." Willow reached over, squeezing her hand quickly.  "You're the Slayer.  All Chosen and duty bound.  When I got back the First Evil was trying to devour the world, remember?  You had other problems than a recovering witch.  Other priorities."_

_            "The world might end." Buffy linked her fingers through Willow's.  "And if it does, I'm not going to regret the Big Bads I didn't defeat or the people I didn't save.  I'm going to regret not being a better friend."_

_            "Is all this introspectiveness because of Faith and Spike?"_

_            "No.  Maybe.  Sort of."_

_            "You did love him then?"_

_            "Well, duh." Buffy grinned._

_            "Just wondering."_

_            "See?  That's what I'm talking about.  These are things we should have talked about.  Over ice cream and mochas."   _

_            "The world isn't over yet, Buff.  We can still do it." Willow pulled her hand away to switch lanes.  "This is our exit.  We should be there in an hour or so.  We'll have to pick up a map and do another locator spell once we get closer to the city."_

_            "Finally." Buffy shifted in her seat, trying to stretch her stiff muscles.  "Road trips are highly overrated."_

_            "We've been driving nonstop.  Usually you bring cameras and camp out in the woods with bears and ticks.  Big difference in the fun factor."_

_            "I should call Giles.  Let him know we're here."_

_            "Let him stew for a bit."_

_            "Callous and strange much?"_

_            "I have my moments." Willow grinned, checking the rear view mirror quickly to make sure Dawn was still sleeping peacefully.  "So.  Since you're in guilty confession mode, I want all the juicy details."_

_            "What juicy details?"_

_            "What happened? Total mood shifting.  You've been all over the place.  Happy, sad."_

_            "Roller coaster, huh?"_

_            "And now you're going on double dates with Xander and asking me to explain my research." Willow raised her eyebrows expectantly.  "Not complaining, just wondering what set off the New and Friendlier Buffy."_

_            "Lots of things, I guess." Buffy picked at her nails absently.  Her first impulse was to dismiss Willow's queries and retreat back into the Slayer fortress of solitude.  "Spike and Faith are definitely one or more of those things.  Beyond the whole sex thing.  Although it's not weirding me out as much as it did at first.  I mean, what is it with Spike and Slayers?"_

_            "Maybe it's hard to be with someone who's weaker than you are.  And he can't really be with another vampire now that he has a soul.  Doesn't leave a lot of options."_

_            "Way with the insight, Will." Buffy was both surprised and impressed.  Maybe it applied to Slayers as well.  Was she reluctant to get into a relationship with a normal guy because some part of her knew that they would never be equals?  Hadn't that been the reason Riley had left?  _

_            "It's like magic.  I worry that if I do find another witch, she'll be more powerful than I am and I'll feel insecure.  Or vice versa.  It's a big insecurity nightmare either way." _

_            "I guess the trick is to find your equal then."_

_            "Pretty hard when you're like us." Willow sighed.  "Especially once I get into the whole killing people part.  Hard to find anyone who knows what that feels like.  Outside of jail anyway."_

_            "Good thing you have us.  Has Xander killed anyone?"_

_            "I'm sure we could come up with a body count if we tried really hard.  Kinda unavoidable in our line of work." Willow's laugh was light and easy.  "But neither of you have murdered someone in cold blood.  So it doesn't really count.  Not even Giles has done that."_

_            "Giles killed Ben." Buffy whispered, turning to look out the window._

_            "What?"_

_            "To kill Glory.  He killed Ben."_

_            "Oh.  Well.  See?  That was self-defense too."_

_            "Willow."_

_            "It was.  Glory would have come back, you know that." Willow squinted at one of the road signs.  "Not that I want any of you to go and kill someone just to relate to me, cause that's all sorts of bad.  I don't want any of you to have to feel like I did.  It's awful."_

_            "Like you can't breathe."_

_            "Yeah.  And sometimes the guilt hurts so much you'd do anything to make it go away.  All you want is to just block it out."_

_            "But you can't ever close your eyes without seeing the blood.  And the eyes.  Those are the worst.  Except the nightmares." Buffy shivered, focusing on her fingernails.  How much could she get away with before Willow began to suspect something?  _

_            "You didn't kill Katrina, Buffy."_

_            "I wasn't talking about Katrina." The point of no return passed without so much as a speed bump and Buffy knew that she couldn't look back.  Share mode wasn't comfortable, wasn't easy.  She hated it.  Hated feeling vulnerable.  But Willow deserved to know she wasn't alone._

_            "Buffy?"_

_            "I killed Ethan, Will.  After you guys left.  I shot him." She looked away, afraid of what she would see in her friend's eyes._

_            "He wasn't exactly a good person."_

_            "Neither was Warren." Buffy countered.  "Don't go all Mother Teresa on me.  He should have gone to jail.  I killed him because I wanted him dead.  Because he hurt people I care about.  It's that simple.  I wanted revenge."  The silence stretched out into minutes and she began to wonder if Willow had chosen not to speak to her again.  When she had finally decided to say something, Willow broke the stillness._

_            "Anya would be proud." She said quietly.  _

_            "You think?"_

_            "Well, she probably would have told you to turn him into a troll or Sluggoth demon.  Or have a spider demon rip his heart out.  But a bullet works.  Clean, efficient."_

_            "The callous and strange moment rears its head again."_

_            "What are friends for?" Willow took a deep breath.  "Can't say I don't feel strangely relieved to no longer be the only Scooby with blood on their hands.  The only Scooby left anyway.  Is Giles a Scooby?"_

_            "Nah.  Too old.  And stuffy."_

_            "Wow." Red hair danced as she shook her head.  "So it's guilt that's bringing on the Buffy evolution?"_

_            "And the realization that quite possibly, Spike, a vampire, is a better person than I am.  I don't even know what makes a person good anymore.  How do I know if I'm being a good friend or a good sister?  I don't feel like a good person."_

_            "Good isn't a destination, Buffy.  You don't ever wake up one morning and see a good person in the mirror.  It's a way of life.  You have to chose every day to be good, to do good."_

_            "This is exactly what I mean when I say I've been a bad friend.  You've gotten all mature and insightful and I haven't even noticed.  You're all grown up and I'm still expecting you to be the shy Xander loving girl in braids and Mary Janes."_

_            "I'm still her.  I'm just a better actress now." Willow smiled and pulled off at a gas station.  "Let's get a map and find our other murderous friends."_

_            "We should hold meetings.  Murderers Anonymous.  Hi, my name is Buffy Summers."_

_            "And I'm Willow Rosenberg." Willow climbed out of the car and stretched her arms.  "I haven't skinned anyone alive for four years and counting.  Yay me."  She stifled a yawn.  "Why don't you stay with Dawn?  I'll get the map."_

_            Buffy watched the redhead until she disappeared into the convenience store.  Maybe Dawn would like some snacks or something.  Turning around, she saw her sister staring at her from the back seat.  Damn.  "How long have you been awake, Dawn?"_

_            "Long enough."_

_            "Dawn.  I…I don't know what to say."  Buffy cringed when she saw the distance in her sister's eyes._

_            "You don't have to give me excuses Buffy.  I'm not going to judge you." Dawn gave her a tired smile.  "I just wish you would have told me the truth instead of lying."_

_            "I didn't want you to look at me.  The way you're looking at me right now."_

_            "Buffy.  I love you." Dawn shook her head and sat up slowly.  "You're my world.  You died for me.  That's not going to change because you killed Ethan Rayne.  And I think you're the bestest, most wonderful sister in the universe."_

_"Is everyone on this planet more mature than I am?"_

_            "We all have our moments.  I'm planning on being extremely immature once we get to New Orleans.  It will probably involve staying out too late and consuming copious amounts of a malt beverage."_

_            "Wrong answer." Buffy grinned at her sister._

_            "Not too late and lite beer?"_

_            "Keep trying."_

_            Dawn sighed, "Back by ten and Coke.  You're no fun.  You're the Fun Slayer."_

_            "Cause your jokes need a good staking." Buffy reached out to brush back Dawn's hair.  "Maybe half a beer and eleven."_

_            "Midnight?"_

_            "Don't push it."_

_            "Ouch." Air hissed through Faith's teeth as Verek settled the ice pack onto her shoulder.  "I'll be fine.  Ow!"  She scowled at him, watching him dab at the bloody wounds with a damp cloth._

_            "Retractable spines on the forearms.  Movra demons.  Bounty hunters mostly."_

_            "You coulda warned me about that before the bastard tried to julienne my back."_

_            "Would you have listened?"_

_            "Hell no.  But at least you could give me a rousing chorus of I Told You So's." She turned away, staring at the band across the lounge and trying to ignore the burning sensation in her back.  "I'm getting closer.  I can feel it.  They're moving him around, never staying in the same place."_

_            "They know you're looking."_

_            "Yeah.  Figured." She fought the urge to take a deep breath.  That would only result in more pain.  "So Doc…can I play tic-tac-toe yet or do I need a few more scars?"_

_            "Very humorous.  I believe you have room for at least two rounds."  He dabbed the healing salve over the wounds gently._

_            "If you can't laugh at yourself, what can you laugh at?"_

_            "I enjoy a good satire."_

_            "I'm going to be enjoying dreamland in a minute.  You done?"_

_            "Just about.  There."_

_            Faith shifted in her chair and shrugged into the button up shirt she had adopted as post-slaying attire.  The comforting scent of Spike was slowly fading from the fabric.  She smiled a little as she remembered his face when he saw her wearing it.  One eyebrow raised as blue eyes raked over her body.  It was white.  He loved her in white.  Brides and angels wore white, he said.  She was his angel.  The familiar ache began to fill her chest and she shook away the memories, focusing on each button.  It was time to crash for a few hours.  Recharge before heading back out into the streets._

_            "Any luck with the spell?" She rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and helped Verek gather up the bloody bandages._

_            "Sadly, no.  Whoever has him must be cloaking their location.  I can't find him." The demon tucked the first aid supplies and jar of salve into his leather bag._

_            "Should've tagged him." Fighting back a yawn, she settled into one of the longer booths where she could stretch out completely.  Unlacing her boots stiffly, she dumped them on the floor and curled up against the cushioned back.  "Wake me up in a few hours."_

_            "Of course."_

_            Faith closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of leather and the musky aroma that was unique to the lounge.  Sweet, smoky.  She hadn't figured out what it was.  Probably didn't matter.  She tried shifting her weight to her side to keep off of the fresh wounds on her back.  What was it with evil and her back anyway?  Couldn't they slash something else next time?  Slayer healing or not, she was going to be one giant scar if this kept up.  Her lips tugged into a smile, picturing Spike's worried face as he fussed over her wounds.  Evil schmevil.  He was a big softie when it came to women.  She'd even heard him talk about Willow with the same protective edge in his voice that he used when he spoke of Dawn.  Red, he called her.  All his pet names for the Scooby gang.  Xander was the boy or Harris.  Dawn was Niblet or Bit.  Red for Willow, Watcher for Giles.  Not the most creative of nicknames, although she still hadn't asked where Peaches came from.  It had taken her a while to figure out that he was referring to Angel.  But it was part of Spike.  The way he gathered people around him, formed attachments good or bad, pulling them kicking and screaming into his life.  Or unlife, whatever vampires had.  Once Spike decided he wanted you in his world, there was no escape from him.  That made her chuckle.  Which hurt.  Ouch._

_            Voices invaded her pleasant musings, pulling her from the dream train as she was about to board.  Damn them, whoever they were.  She needed sleep.  Inconsiderate pricks.  Blinking the effects of almost sleep away, she struggled back to a sitting position and rubbed her eyes.  The green skinned demon Verek had introduced as Kraqin led three familiar faces into the lounge.  Her heart sunk.  Buffy was in New Orleans.  With Dawn and Willow.  The tight ass Slayer had left the Hellmouth and that could never be a good thing._

_            "Faith!" It was Dawn who noticed her first.  She tried to smile as they made their way through the tables and booths.  They looked like they hadn't slept in days, hauling suitcases and duffle bags behind them._

_            "Hey." Faith grimaced as she ungracefully climbed out of the booth to greet them.  "You guys look like hell."_

_            "And you're fresh as a daisy?" Buffy raised one eyebrow skeptically._

_            "Movra demon." Faith touched the bandages beneath the shirt gently.  "Since I really doubt you're here to see me, why are you here?"_

_            "We needed to get Dawn away from the Hellmouth." Willow said quickly as she slid into the opposite seat of the booth, relaxing into the plush cushions.  "Feels good not to be moving.  I'd forgotten what it was like to not be driving."_

_            "Willow had to drive most of the way." Dawn explained, dropping her duffle bad and taking a seat at the nearest table.  "Buffy can only be trusted if there are several hundred miles of straight road and I'm seizure girl."_

_            "Yeah.  Giles said something about that."_

_            "He did?" Buffy's voice hardened.  "When did you talk to him?"_

_            "While ago, B.  Before we left Seattle." Faith itched the edge of the surgical tape.  "That's why we came back here.  Figured Verek might know something to help.  Worth a shot anyway."_

_            "Right." Buffy took a deep breath and gave her a forced smile.  "So Spike knows about Dawn."_

_            "Yeah.  Verek sent him to an Oracle to get some answers." Faith bit her lip and sat down again.  "That was three days ago."_

_            "And he's not back?"_

_            "He's back."  Faith shook her head.  "The bookstore, where we were staying, got blown to hell.  Verek got me out and brought me here.  We don't know where Spike is.  I've been looking but…it's a big city.  And the vampire who runs this town put a price on his head that's fucking obscene.  Figure someone found him and cashed in."_

_            "But you don't think he's dead?  Cause we tried a locator spell for him and there was nothing so we looked for you instead."_

_            "No.  This guy, Cable.  He wanted him alive.  None of Verek's spells have worked either." Faith tapped the table nervously, avoiding the serious faces around her.  "Did it help then?"_

_            "What?"_

_            "Dawn.  You feel better?"_

_            "Sure." Dawn shrugged casually.  "I mean, it's a little better.  Sometimes.  And the whole creepy crawly sensation is less.  Which is good."_

_            "She's getting worse." Buffy sat down, her face drawn and weary.  "We had her wrapped up at home.  To keep her from hurting herself.  Will's using a binding spell now.  Holding her down wasn't…wasn't working."_

_            "Bruises." Dawn held up her arms to show Faith the dark marks on her skin._

_            "God, Dawnie.  I'm sorry." Faith felt pain tug at her.  Sweet kid, she didn't deserve to suffer this way.  "You guys haven't found anything then.  To help."_

_            "Sorry." Willow shook her head sadly.  "But we're not here to kill Spike, promise.  Perish the thought.  And we do have an idea.  Angel kinda suggested it."_

_            "What?" Faith relaxed, she hadn't wanted to ask that question.  Hadn't wanted to even consider the possibility.  It hurt too much to think about it._

_            "Well." Willow glanced quickly at Buffy.  "We think that maybe, since this whole thing is because of his soul, if we could get rid of it then maybe we could restore whatever balance has gone all wonky."_

_            "You can do that?  Take away his soul." Faith frowned.  Would Spike be willing to give up his soul?  He didn't talk about Africa much but she knew that whatever he had gone through to earn the soul hadn't been a Tupperware party.  The bits and pieces he had shared had left her a little wigged out and amazed that he had even survived._

_            "I think so.  It's like cursing in reverse.  I brought an Orb of Thesula just in case." Willow reached for her purse.  "I mean, we weren't going to do it without his permission.  We were just going to ask."_

_            "You drove all the way from California just to ask." Faith raised her eyebrows._

_            "We were kinda hoping he'd say yes." Buffy sighed, having the decency to look guilty._

_            "And if it works, it'll save Dawn and Spike."_

_            "Maybe even the world."_

_            "Right." Faith took a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing pain in her back.  She needed the calm more than she needed to avoid the pain.  Spike was gone.  Probably hurt, probably locked in a cage somewhere if the past was any indication of the New Orleans way of doing things.  He'd do it.  She knew he would.  To save Dawn.  "What do you need?"_

_            "Just some table space, I brought everything with me." Willow motioned to her bags._

_            "Fine.  Do it then."_

_            "Are you sure you don't want to wait?  Check with him first?" Buffy cautioned._

_            "I'm sure." Faith answered grimly.  "I need some sleep."_

_            "It'll take a while to get set up."_

_            "Then wake me up when you start." She tried to smile.  "If you need anything, Verek should be around here somewhere.  Little guy with suspenders and glasses.  He's cool."  Closing her eyes to block out the world around her, she laid down again, curling against the back of the seat and hiding her face with her arms.  To keep the light out of her eyes.  Yeah.  That was all.  Just the light.  Not because she didn't want them to see her cry.  She hoped Spike would forgive her._

There's a light above me.  I feel as though I'm swimming upward through thick, inky water.  Fragments of memories return, the light gets brighter and I finally break the surface.  Awareness spreads through me.  I can feel my arms and legs.  Where am I?  Vision is still fuzzy and I blink in an attempt to clear the haze from my eyes.  Something cold and heavy is wrapped around my wrists.  Shackles.  Again.  I can hear the chains rattle as I test my limbs.  So much for southern hospitality.  Must've taken a few lessons from Buffy.

            "Welcome back, Spike." A cool, smooth voice breaks into my muddled brain.  I try to focus on the source.  "The effects of the drug should wear off quickly.  I'm afraid that I've had to keep you sedated.  Your Slayer whore is quite persistent and I'm not ready to let her find you yet."

            Despite the lingering fogginess of my brain, a growl rises unbidden in my throat at the derogatory label and I jerk the chains angrily.  My eyes finally shift into focus and I catch a glimpse of my captor.  Not Cable.  Not a vampire.  Something I'm unfamiliar with.  Doesn't smell human.  He's tall and well dressed, immaculate in fact.  Handsome in a dangerous way, with dark hair and coal black eyes.  Frightening in his poise and confidence.  I get the impression that he fears nothing.  In fact, I'm thinking that I should be afraid of him.

            "What do you want?" I manage to get out despite my dry throat.  Hunger gnaws at me painfully.  Obviously he isn't the type who believes in feeding his prisoners.

            "One good day." A cruel smile spreads across his face and he shifts in the chair he's sitting on, sipping a cup of trendy coffee.  "I have been watching you for some time."

            "Where's Faith?"

            "Safely squirreled away by your demon friend."

            "Cable doesn't have her?" Now I'm confused.  I could have sworn the Oracle told me that he did.

            "Of course not.  That imbecile and his merry band of morons wouldn't even have you if you hadn't walked right into their hands." The man brushed the topic away with a casual gesture.  "But it's not important how you got here."

            "Who are you?"  This guy is seriously creeping me out.  

            "You may call me Caine."

            "Well.  Caine.  How 'bout you get to the interesting part and spare me the bloody details?" I manage sarcasm and a good smirk.  He hasn't dusted me yet.  Which probably means he still needs me for some reason.

            "Such bravado in the face of death." Caine chuckles and shakes his head slightly.  "No need to worry.  I want to keep you alive a little longer.  You see, as long as you remain in this world, it will continue to collapse."

            "Heard somethin' to that effect." I say slowly, testing the give in the chains.

            "Yes.  It's all about the fine print." He puts the coffee down carefully.  "In fact, the balance won't be restored until you are dead.  Or all the Slayers are dead.  Not much of a choice, really.  Three Slayers, one vampire.  We both know what those Slayers are thinking."

            "You don't know them." This time it's a real smirk.  He may be right about Buffy and the bitch Slayer but he's wrong about Faith.

            "Perhaps.  It doesn't matter.  I prefer to keep you all alive long enough to accomplish something truly magnificent." He gives me another chilling smile.  "That's why you're here.  To protect you."

            "Bloody considerate of you."

            "I try."

            "So what's the game?  You enjoy the chaos?  Or hope to clean up after there's nothing left?"

            "Both." Caine shrugs his shoulders casually.  "It's been rather annoying.  Keeping you out of harm's way.  That pathetic group of men who call themselves Watchers have been quite tenacious in their attempts to destroy you.  Aren't you grateful I didn't let them?"

            "You killed those men?"

            "My servants did."

            "Forgive me if I don't apologize for inconveniencing you."

            "No apology necessary.  You've proven more than adequate in every other way." Caine sighs contentedly and reaches for his coffee.  "Drowning Faith was a stroke of genius.  And the other Slayer?  Such resolve.  It must have been difficult to resist the call of the Hellmouth.  I admire that."

            "Glad you find my life so amusing." I snarl angrily.  The chains won't give.  I'm completely at the bastard's mercy.

            "I do.  Believe me, I do."  He chuckles softly.  "The irony is that if you had killed them, the Slayers, this world wouldn't be falling apart as quickly, if at all.  It would have taken decades, maybe more, to reach this point.  So much hinging on the actions of one vampire.  Amazing, isn't it?"

            I remain silent.  This isn't anything new to me.  World falling apart.  Blame it on Spike.  Because he tried to do the right thing and suffer like a good boy.  Suffer for his sins and be a better man.  Keep his fucking promises.  That was all.  Apparently it was a cosmic crime to try to rise above my nature and think outside the box of evil blood sucking fiend.  To be more than just a monster.  Fuck the balance.  I'm not sorry at all.

            "Such determination." Those black eyes bore through me, into my soul, and send shivers up my spine.  "I could let you out.  If you would follow your true nature.  Be the killer you really are."

            "Sod off.  I've changed."

            "Have you?" He watches me thoughtfully.  "Don't you wonder what her blood tastes like?  What it would be like to sink your fangs into her neck as you're fucking her?  I know you do."  He smiles when I don't answer.  "I know you want it so badly that you can barely control yourself.  To feel that heat, that power on your lips.  To really make her yours."

            "Go to hell."

            "Come now, Spike.  No need to lie to me.  I know your desires.  I know what you want to do to her.  The fantasies that you keep buried deep inside the demon." He leans toward me, eyes glittering.  "There's nothing like the feeling of a soul leaving the body.  Draining her dry as you drive into her.  The rush.  The release.  You still crave it.  Even with the soul.  Part of you wants to hear her scream, make her beg and cry.  The part of you that wanted to be the one who cut her face."

            Crashing forward, I'm shaking with rage as the chains pull me up short.  I can't even speak.  I've never wanted to kill anyone so badly in my life.  Never hated or feared anyone as much as the man in front of me.  Forcing my lips to form the words, I spit out a terse denial.  He doesn't know me.  It's not true.

            "But it is true, Spike.  You want to break her.  Fuck her until there's nothing left but blood and tears."  He's laughing at my impotent fury, enjoying my fear and pain.  It's not true.  It can't be true.  "And you could save this world.  By giving in to those desires.  By fulfilling those fantasies.  Be what you really are.  Do what you really want to do."

            "No." I choke on the single syllable.  "Get away from me.  I'll never hurt her."

            "Not even to save the world?" He grins.  "You'd rather let her be ripped apart by some demon.  A Polgara perhaps."  He stands up smoothly and stalks toward me.  "You could turn her.  Then she could be a true partner.  Forever.  Think of what you could do to her if you had her forever."

            "Fuck you."

            "You can't deny it.  Not to me." He stays just out of reach.  "I know the depths of your heart.  The darkest secrets of your soul.  She'll come for you and you'll want it.  Her blood in your throat, her life in your teeth.  You'll want to taste her pain as you drink.  Her body writhing beneath you, fighting against you as you take her.  As hard as you want.  As much as you want."

            I turn my head away from him, unable to stop the words from creating images in my mind.  I'm horrified.  Sickened.  Terrified that he's right and there is a part of me that wants it.  Wants the dark, sadistic fantasies he's spinning in my ears.  I'm a monster, I'm a demon.  The parade of my past comes back, bringing his words into frightening perspective.  I've done what he's whispering.  Raped and killed and relished in my own destruction.  Guilt stabs through me and I stare down at the floor in wonder.  This is new.  It feels different.  Gasping unnecessarily, I realize that it isn't the soul feeling remorse for my past.  It's the demon.

            "There.  See?" Caine croons seductively.  "You remember how sweet it was.  Let it come back to you.  It's almost time.  You'll be free of that pathetic soul soon enough."

            "What?" I stagger away from him, backing against the wall.

            "They're going to take away your soul." He laughs maliciously.  "But it won't help.  And then they'll come after you.  You'll have to make a choice.  The world is in your hands.  How you save it is up to you."

            I watch him leave, blinking numbly at his back as he leaves.  The room is quiet and bare.  Solid concrete walls echo with the clicking of the chains and the smell of coffee still taints the air.  Who was going to take away my soul?  I don't really need to ask.  It has to be the Scoobies.  They would be the only ones to even try anything other than a stake.  And Faith will tell them to do it.  Anything to save me.  Even if she can only save the demon.  Bitter tears sting my eyes and I sink back down to the floor.  The world is in my hands.  Good or evil.  One vampire or three Slayers.  None of them are good choices.  If I chose to kill again, there's no guarantee that I would ever be able to stop.  That I wouldn't have to keep murdering innocent people to maintain whatever bullshit balance everyone seems to care about.  

            The thought turns my stomach.  Demon and soul blanch with revulsion.  I can't.  I've burned that bridge.  Tore it down when I couldn't kill Faith, chose not to kill the Slayer in Buffy's basement.  That leaves two more options.  Either I have to go or the Slayers do.  Not really an option either.  There is no choice.  There is only one option.  I have to die.

            My ears begin to buzz.  White hot pain lances through me.  The soul is being ripped from my body.  Closing my eyes tightly, I can't stop myself from trying to hold on to it.  Desperately trying to keep William with me.  I need him.  The pain fades and I can feel the emptiness inside.  Tears break loose, pouring down my cheeks as the last four years are swept away.  Everything I have done, everything I have suffered has been for nothing.  Now I'm just a vampire.  Just a demon.  In the end, I'm still a monster.

_Buffy was holding her breath.  Breathe Buffy, breathe.  She inhaled sharply and forced herself to ease the vise grip she had on the bottled water in her hand.  Crushing the bottle and squirting water all over everyone was not of the good.  Especially since Willow was halfway through the incantation, Faith looked ready to climb the walls, and Dawn was still shooting Verek nervous glances.  Buffy couldn't blame her.  If she'd been cut and bled by someone who could have passed for the demon's twin brother, she wouldn't be relaxo-girl either._

_Breathe Buffy, breathe.  Focus on anything but the spell Willow was doing.  It seemed so unreal.  And unfair.  Taking away something that Spike had fought for.  All they could do was cross their fingers and hope, pray, beg and plead, that it would work.  That something would go right.  Part of her mind whispered pessimistically that nothing was ever this easy or this simple.  They were missing something.  She couldn't put her finger on it but she knew it was there.  Slayer instinct.  Or too much road time.  All those little stripes, hypnotizing and lulling you into sleep so they could curve without warning and send you crashing into a power line or telephone pole.  Roads were evil._

_The Orb started to glow and Buffy gripped the bottle again, every muscle in her body freezing in place as she waited for Willow to finish the spell and tell them if it worked or not.  Please, let it work.  If anyone deserved a little help from whoever was out there, it was Spike.  Faith was a barely contained bundle of energy next to her, clenching her fists, pacing.  Her dark eyes were full of fear and her whole body screamed tension.  Buffy wanted to comfort her.  She didn't.  Not quite ready for that level of the New and Improved Buffy.  Maybe some day they'd even be able to have a conversation without having it degrade into an argument.  Maybe not for a long time.  Of course, if this didn't work and the world fell apart it wouldn't really matter.  She wasn't sure if that was supposed to make her feel better or worse._

_"It's done." Willow leaned back, her voice relieved and hopeful.  "I felt the soul pass through."_

_"Did it work?" Faith's voice was tense._

_"I don't know.  Can you tell if anything's different, Dawnie?"_

_Dawn shook her head miserably, "Nothing.  Maybe it just takes a while.  You know, like cursing Angel.  It took a while  for that to take effect."_

_"Actually, it's almost instantaneous." Willow sighed and began to gather up the runes.  "A few seconds lag is all.  But you're right.  Maybe the world needs time to change momentum or something.  It could be that."_

_"Verek?" Faith looked to the demon for input._

_"I don't believe that it had the result you desired." Verek answered softly.  _

_"You mean it didn't work." Buffy kept her eyes on Faith, searching for a hint of what was going on beneath the surface.  "Now what?  Can we put it back?"_

_"We could curse him." Willow suggested._

_"No." Buffy and Faith both answered immediately, exchanging a look of surprised understanding.  "I don't think…I mean, with the whole clause thing…it's really not fair to do that to him.  We should have thought of that first.  I can't believe we didn't think of that."  Buffy kicked herself mentally, she really was a bad friend._

_"So the watchers were right then." Faith's shoulders slumped and she stared at the ground.  "He has to die."_

_"Faith, no.  There has to be another way."  Buffy shook her head emphatically._

_"There's no time, B.  You know that."_

_"Don't give up, Faith.  Giles is still looking.  And we can look.  Here.  I'm sure there are books here that we could find."_

_"If you like digging through ashes." Faith shook her head, turning away from them sharply.  "How much longer till this whole world goes to hell?  You know how bad it's getting.  Demons everywhere.  People are dying.  They're getting harder and harder to kill.  I had to stake a vampire three times last night before he finally dusted.  And Dawn?  How much time does she have left?"_

_"Faith." Buffy almost left her seat, almost tried to wrap her arms around Faith and tell her everything would be all right.  Almost._

_"He asked me," Her voice broke and when she turned around there were tears in her eyes.  "He asked me to do it.  If there wasn't any other way."_

_"You don't even know where he is."_

_"I'll find him."_

_"And what? Kill him?  Don't do this Faith."  Buffy heard the water bottle crack, water poured over her fingers.  _

_"Isn't this what being a Slayer is all about?  You're always preaching about saving the world.  Nothing else matters.  Just the mission.  Isn't that right?  It's about making those hard decisions."_

_Buffy couldn't argue.  Faith was right.  Being a Slayer was exactly that.  "Let me do it."_

_"Why?"_

_"So you don't have to." Buffy heard her voice tremble as she fought against the emotions threatening to break through.  "I don't want you to have do what I did to Angel.  I don't want you to be hurt like that."_

_"It's not like that…Spike and me…we're not…"_

_"In love?" Buffy brushed at the traitorous tears escaping from her eyes, trying to blink them away.  "You're so in love with him you can't even see it.  If you do this.  It won't just kill him.  It'll kill you.  And I can't let that happen." Faith was silent.  Buffy could see her hands shaking as she fought an internal battle._

_"He asked me to." The Slayer's voice was barely a whisper.  "I owe him that much."_

_Buffy watched her leave, listening to the sound of her footsteps until they had faded away into silence.  Part of her was screaming that she should go after her, stop her.  But Faith was right.  They were running out of time and they had no other options left.  Spike deserved to choose his own executioner.  _

_"Buffy?" Dawn's wavering cry broke through her thoughts.  Large blue eyes were wide in terror and her face was pale as she stumbled from her seat.  _

_"I've got it."  Willow immediately began the binding spell, securing Dawn in a shimmering azure force field that would keep her from hurting herself._

_Buffy's heart ached as she watched her sister begin to shake, eyes rolling back into her head until there was nothing but white.  She checked her watch quickly, beginning the countdown that always seemed to last for an eternity._

_"How long has she been like this?" Verek asked sharply._

_"A few weeks.  I'm not sure.  It all blurs together." Buffy finally noticed the destroyed bottle in her hand and the water all over the floor at her feet._

_"She needs help."_

_"We know." Willow rubbed her forehead tiredly and sat down next to Buffy, taking her hand supportively._

_"I mean now.  The human shell is too fragile to survive.  She's dying."  Verek began searching through his pockets.  Finally he pulled out a gray stone talisman and started whispering._

_"You said the human shell?" Willow frowned.  _

_"The form created by the monks."_

_"How do you know what she is?" Buffy gripped Willow's hand tightly.  A blur of light began at Dawn's feet, just a step away from her.  It spread into a puddle, glistening and dancing._

_"Release the binding spell." Verek ordered firmly._

_"Are you sure that's a good idea?"_

_"She doesn't have much time left.  I promise you she will be safe, just release the spell."_

_"Do it Will."  Buffy set her jaw firmly.  The binding field faded away.  Dawn collapsed onto the floor and disappeared through the portal.  Light blinked out and there was nothing left but carpet.  "Where is she?"_

_"It is called the Nexus.  She will be safe there."_

_"Will I get her back?" Buffy bit her lip, tears slipping down her cheeks.  The world was finally ending.  There was nothing she could do to stop it and now she would be facing it without her sister._


	28. Lineage

**Lineage**

Dawn whirled around; nothing but empty space and twinkling stars surrounded her. Was she dead? She knew there wasn't air in space for her to breathe but she was inhaling and exhaling without any problem. She rubbed her arms vigorously against the shivering. A side effect of the seizures. Where was she?

"Welcome home." A warm voice surprised her and she jumped, turning to see an older woman standing behind her and a silver haired man sitting off to the side. There wasn't a chair or piece of furniture beneath him. Just nothing.

"Who are you? Where did you come from?"

"From the void," the woman answered cryptically. "You have been brought here for protection. Your mortal body is not strong enough to survive the breakdown."

"Is the world going to end?" Dawn didn't even know where the world was but it seemed like a good, mature question to be asking.

"All worlds do," the man answered with a casual shrug.

"What about my sister?" Not so mature but definitely more important.

"Her fate is written." Her smile was kind. "I will return. My sisters desire to greet you." She disappeared into a soft glow that appeared to be just past a moon.

"Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning," Dawn mumbled as she looked around, still unnerved by the view beneath her feet. She wasn't even standing on anything. Just standing. Nothing down there but more stars and emptiness. She wondered if she could simply sit down without falling into the inky black beneath her.

"Why don't you try it?" the man asked congenially, waving to a spot at his side.

Dawn sat down slowly, half expecting to fall. Relieved when she met resistance, she positioned herself on the invisible seat and glanced around nervously. "Where am I?"

"Beyond your reality. I am Chronos."

The name sounded familiar, pricking at a memory somewhere in her mind. A class maybe. She noticed that he was watching her intently. Come on, Dawn. Think. Ask smart questions. Get some answers. "So, I'm guessing you're pretty powerful. To do the whole space-time hopping. Fred says it takes a lot of energy just to make a little hole."

"Different rules apply to mortals."

"You're not human then."

"I have assumed human form because you are most comfortable with it. I have no true form."

"Way with the cryptic." She tried to smile politely at the thing with the human face. "But most of you big guns are. You're not evil though? Right? Cause you saved me, I think, and it would really suck if you were evil."

"I am not evil." Chronos returned her smile. "I simply am. As you are. Older than man, older than demons."

"As I am? I'm only nineteen. Or five. Depends on how you count."

"I refer to the Key."

"About that." Dawn took a deep breath. "I don't suppose you have any answers? The how, what, why type of answers."

"Perhaps. Why don't you try asking?"

"All right. Here goes nothing." This was her big chance to get the truth. "What is the Key? Other than a living energy matrix in the form of green glowy ball, cause I've heard that one a million times and it still doesn't make sense."

"Are you familiar with incarnations? The personification of abstract ideas and concepts?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"Would you believe me if I told you that these personifications, these incarnations, are real?"

"Like God? And the Devil?"

"Not quite." Chronos shifted, gazing off into the nothing pensively. "In popular belief, those are actual beings whose sole purpose is to influence or effect mankind. They are human in nature. Incarnations are not. They exist in every dimension regardless of species or moral beliefs. There is Good, there is Evil. There is Death."

"The guy with the big curvy ax?"

"A scythe. To cleave the soul from the body."

"That's real too?"

Chronos chuckled. "It's amazing how much truth humans have without actually having any at all."

"What does this have to do with the Key?"

"There are the Greater Incarnations. Good, Evil, Life, Death, War, Fate, Time." He stroked his beard slowly, turning up the tip at the bottom until it curled. "But there are others. Considered to be Lesser Incarnations. Embodiments of more particular aspects of reality. The hunt between predator and prey, the lunar cycle, the tides. The ocean herself has an Incarnation. One of the least known represents the flow of energy that maintains the barriers between worlds. The Key. In a way, you are that energy. It created you, maintains you. As the walls have begun to crumble, you have felt the effects because they are part of you. You are connected."

"I've been hearing voices. Stuff I don't understand."

"Outside your mortal body, you are not bound by linear time. What you hear are echoes of the past and of the future."

"Am I human? Even a little?" she asked quietly.

"You are more than human, my dear," he told her comfortingly. "You have a human body but you are not of the world. It's quite complex, actually. The Key itself has only minimal awareness and a very basic personality. Within you, it has the opportunity for fully fledged emotional development. "

"Do I have a soul?"

"What is a soul?" he countered. "A moral compass? A conscience? A level of intelligence?"

"Do I have a soul?" she demanded forcefully.

"A human soul? No." He watched her silently for a moment. "You have human consciousness, human thoughts, human emotions. Human understanding of the world around you and the moral fabric in which you reside. But not a soul like those you love." He reached out to touch her hand gently. "You soul is bound to the energy that weaves through reality and forms the basis for all dimensions. The universe is your soul."

"I feel normal." Dawn gave him a half-hearted laugh. "Just a normal California girl going to college. I don't feel all universe-y."

"The Key is a passive incarnation. Unlike War or Death."

"You're Time." She blinked as she finally remembered the name. Mythology 1200. "Chronos. You're Time."

His eyes sparkled like the stars around them. "Very good."

"And the woman who was here before?"

"Lachies. Her sisters are Clotho and Atropis."

"The three Fates." Dawn shook her head with an amused grin. "Professor Adams would totally flip if I told him about this. I mean totally. He was all preachy about how man always makes up these figures to represent things we don't understand. Like he would know." She rolled her eyes and swung her legs into the nothing at her feet. "So you can't stop what's happening then? Can you?"

"We can affect your world quite strongly. You have seen your own influence, the damage and the power." He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "But we are forbidden to interfere. It would damage the very foundation of reality. We are meant only to watch and maintain."

"Sounds boring."

"Eternally so."

"What's going to happen then? To Buffy and the world."

"That is yet to be decided. There are still paths to be chosen, all leading to different places." Chronos gazed off into the void.

"And Spike?"

"Yes. Spike. A great deal rests on his shoulders. The fate of worlds. And there is much to be done before the ascension."

Dawn felt her heart skip a beat. She knew that word. She hated that word. It meant big demon snakes and blowing up the high school. People died at ascensions. She opened her mouth to ask and decided not to. She didn't want to know.

* * *

They crawled up and out of crevices the Earth herself had long forgotten. Out of the depths, out from the heat and fire of the spinning core deep within her. Black eyes glittering like a sea of hungry diamonds; cold, inhuman hearts full of violence and rage. Long arms, sinewy and leather tough from digging through basalt and granite. Slithering, twisting, abandoned by time and progress, the creatures broke through the surface and pulled themselves into the world that had forgotten. From the depths of the ocean, they rose from icy darkness to turn toward land. Hundreds of millennia had passed, leaving them restless and starved for carnage. Volcanoes opened their fiery jaws, mountains split gaping maws, spewing shadow hands, feet, talons. Boundaries were falling, balance was breaking.

A siren's song came from the west, enticing, dangling the carrot of evil and bloodshed before souls as black as the void of space. Whispering of death, destruction, and hell. The Hellmouth called out to kindred spirits with the charismatic touch of a southern preacher kissing babies and robbing nest eggs. Its voice resonated through the night, searching for its spawn.

Storm laden clouds crashed together, pounding thunder, raining lightning down on the desolate areas of the Earth. The wind whipped and whirled around a little girl in a green dress as she watched the most ancient of evil begin the contamination and the ultimate destruction of the earth beneath her feet. She could feel the invasion as the thin barriers between dimensions began to shimmer, fade, and crumble. Soon there would only be one world. One planet covered with death and destruction.

She was Life. Regardless of shape, color, species. She was Life. Demon, human, creatures without name. Good or Evil didn't matter to her. It was all just Life and she was bound to uphold and protect all living creatures. Within reason. Death was a necessary part of the cycle of Life and she understood His vital role in all dealings. Frowning, she listened to the impatient cry of the wind, a chorus of banshees heralding the end. The humans would struggle and cling to the Earth with the unbending tenacity that mankind was capable of. Her beautiful Earth would be left a toxic wasteland of nuclear fallout and eternal winter. Already, she could feel the death around her. Human death. Left vulnerable by the destruction of the Slayer lineage. An entire world brought down by one vampire.

"Go ahead." A strong voice broke through her thoughts and Gaia turned to see Alatheia plucking the petals off of a daisy. "Do it, do nothing, do it, do nothing. What will be done?"

"They will cover my soil with blood."

"And mankind has drenched your oceans with oil and sewage." Truth shrugged. "That's life. Fertile earth is the universal ashtray. You give and give and what do they do? Put in high rises, concrete jungles, and a parking lot. Not exactly a worthwhile species."

"Is any species worthwhile?"

"Not especially. They all have their drawbacks. Vampires? They've got that appetite for destruction. Always trying to obliterate the world." She paused for a beat. "That says something about their incompetence right there. Thousands of years and they still haven't managed? In fact, one of them succeeded this time only because he wasn't trying. How's that for irony?"

"What do you want?"

"Swung by to say hello. Could you drop the schoolgirl look? Creeps me out."

Gaia sighed. Limbs lengthened and long hair curled tightly into braids bound in a circlet around her head, green fabric changed to a bright swirl of crimson and gold. The mature eyes of a fully-grown woman gazed out over the landscape. "Better?"

"Much. That pesky desire to play hopscotch is completely gone."

"Now what do you want?"

"To chat. What's wrong with a little bonding between fellow Incarnations? A little song, a little dance. Or skip the dancing. And the singing, actually."

"You're awfully cheerful. Why?"

"Because I'm going to tell you to do what you want most to do."

Gaia hesitated visibly. "It is forbidden."

"A lot of things are forbidden. There are rules, there are laws. Blah blah blah."

"How? The end of this Age is yet far away."

"There's always a loophole."

Gaia smiled as understanding dawned. She turned back to the melee with a laugh, raising her voice in a cry that echoed the screeching of the wind. Earth began to shake and quiver, oceans roared and wind drove its claws into the world. The invaders shuddered, pausing their advance on the planet's inhabitants in their confusion. It was supposed to be easy. The Earth wasn't supposed to fight back.

* * *

The screen door shut with a bang and Jane Liddle scowled down at her tabby companion. "There's nothing out there. I've opened the door a hundred times and you just sit there. Do you want to go out or not?"

"Meow."

"I should have named you Rum Tum Tugger." Scooping up the feline, she buried her nose in his soft fur and breathed in the comforting scent of cat. "What am I going to do with you, Bugs?"

"Meow."

"Yeah. Me too." She kissed him with a loud smack before releasing him, watching him scamper back to the door and take up his post. Guard kitty of the backyard and protector from the things that went bump in the night. When he sat like that, tail curled around his front paws, she realized just how small and fragile he was. Tiny paws, delicate bones. A delicate life that depended on her. Luminous green eyes studied her and she could hope that she saw fondness and even a little bit of understanding in them.

"Wish I knew what was wrong with you, little guy." She finished cleaning up the small kitchen of her apartment. Tucking her straight, slippery hair behind her ears even though it was a losing battle and would be in her face a few seconds later, she sat down on the linoleum next to her cat and stared out into the night. "There's got to be something out there."

The wind had picked up and radio news reported heavy storms heading their way. It would be a pleasant change from the sunny and warm of California's typical fare. Variety was the spice of life. Bugsy's ears swiveled forward as he caught an interesting sound. Pushing out of his crouch, he bumped his nose against the screen and sniffed the air.

"Fine. But you'd better go out this time. And I'm coming with you." Jane grabbed a rain jacket out of the closet and pulled her PowerPuff Girls umbrella out from behind the door just in case the storm decided to get a head start. "Let's go."

She was buffeted by the wind as soon as she left the apartment, locking the door conscientiously behind her. Bugsy waited at her feet, eyes watching the shadows. With a quick reminder to be patient, count ten, and that there was more than one way to skin a cat, she reached down to take hold of him. He darted out of her grasp and across the lawn.

"Bugsy! Come back here!" Hurrying after him, she ducked her head against the gale and pulled the jacket tighter around her body. Damn cat. What was he thinking? She caught sight of him at the corner. He waited until she was almost there before dashing across the street and down another sidewalk, aAs though he was leading her somewhere. She frowned and brushed the thought away. He was just a cat. A normal, four paws with claws bundle of purrs and silky fur, cat. Aside from the weird behavior of late, there was no reason to think he was doing anything but being difficult. Except that he was sitting calmly at the end of the street waiting for her.

"Bad kitty." She scowled worriedly at him. "There can't possibly be a mouse worth all this." Howling wind whipped her hair across her face and she gave up trying to keep it away. Stomping after the dancing feline paws wasn't helping because the sounds of her footsteps were snatched away, depriving her of the satisfaction of hearing her boots clomping down the sidewalk. No use being mad if there was no one to appreciate it. Convinced that her cat had taken a trip down the rabbit hole and had too many drinks with the Hatter, she followed him into one of Sunnydale's many cemeteries.

Freaky town. That's why she'd come here, wasn't it? She'd heard there was never a dull moment in SunnyD. Shivering against the wind, she caught sight of Bugsy as he loped across the lawn, zigzagging between the headstones. Long trip for a mouse and what was wrong with the expensive cat food she bought him? The hair on the back of her neck was beginning to crawl and she really didn't want to be in one of Sunnydale's fine cemeteries, alone, at night. Should've let him go out by himself. He was a grown kitty, perfectly capable of handling himself; much faster and more agile than his human. Frowning, she glanced around for the familiar ball of fur and saw nothing but grass and stone. Damn that cat.

"Bugs?" Her voice came out less steady than she intended. "Bugs? Where are you?" Straining her ears in the rushing wind around her, she tried to pick out any sound that could be him. A meow, anything. Only the leaves rattling in the trees answered her. And a growl. Had someone let their dog out? Spinning around, she searched the shadows for the animal. Nothing.

Something brushed against her leg and she jumped, heart pounding in terror as she looked down to see Bugsy staring innocently up at her. "You are in so much trouble, buster. Worlds of hurt." She was cut off by another growl. Bugsy glanced to the side and hissed, flattening his ears back and arching his back.

"Look out!" The warning shout sliced through the wind and she jerked back as a body tumbled past her. Two men hit the ground with a thud, struggling against each other as they ricocheted between the headstones.

"Xander?" Jane blinked as she recognized one of the men. He was on the ground, a wooden stick in one hand. The man fighting him was trying to get the piece of wood away with one hand and choking him with the other. Pushing away the shock, she gripped the handle of her umbrella firmly and attacked the man on top, beating the back of his head as hard as she could. "Let him go!"

"Jane," Xander coughed, fighting against the grip on his neck. "Get...out...here."

"Hey! I'm trying to help you." Jane felt her breath catch in her throat as the attacker turned his face toward her. Feral golden eyes stared out of a strange, inhuman mask with bumps over his forehead and nose. Sharp fangs slipped past his lips as he snarled at her.

"I'll eat you next, little girl," the creature growled.

Incensed, Jane swung the umbrella down onto his head with a crack, knocking him to the side and off of Xander. "I'll show you little!" He put up both of his hands to protect his face. "You're just a bully!" Two more strikes with the umbrella kept him from getting back up. "And you should be talking? Have you seen your face lately?" She gave him a couple more blows with her umbrella before pausing. "And you know what? I bet you're not even human. So this won't actually kill you. But it'll hurt!" With a grunt, she drove the pointed tip of her umbrella into his stomach, watching as he doubled over in surprise.

"Just a thought." A woman's voice startled her as she backed away, still eying the creature hatefully. "Don't call her little."

Xander rubbed his throat as he got to his feet. "Do you want to finish him off, Cordy?"

"Nah. Go ahead."

He smiled hesitantly at Jane as he approached the dazed creature, driving the stake into its chest and brushing off the resulting dust. "So. Out for a walk?"

Jane glanced between him and the woman. "Chasing my cat." A small meow at her feet reminded her of how she had gotten there in the first place and she quickly picked the errant feline up, hugging him against her protectively. "He...he wanted to go for a walk. In a cemetery. At night. And that guy wasn't human, right? I mean, the dust, the stake. The fangs?"

"Oh."

"I'm Cordelia." The woman smiled with a cheerfullness that seemed out of place in the creepy cemetery.

"Hi. I'm Jane." She took a seat on the stone next to Xander. "So the crime fighting night life?"

"More of an undead fighting night life."

"Oh." Jane looked down at her feet, noticing the grass stains on the toes of her sneakers.

"Everyone okay?" Another man hurried toward them, glancing nervously at her before moving to Cordelia's side. "Someone you know?"

"This is Jane. We've...I've...sort of." Xander shook his head sadly.

"They've been dating," Cordelia offered. "She's feisty, just your type Xander. This is Angel."

"Angel?" Jane raised one eyebrow as he stepped forward to shake her hand.

"It's a family name."

"Oh." Jane nodded, wondering if she was actually at home, in bed. Asleep. Maybe this was all a dream. Claws dug into her arm and she looked down at unblinking green eyes. Not a dream then.

"Why don't you walk her home Xander? We'll finish patrol." The man called Angel suggested. Who names their kid Angel?

"Thanks." There was a hint of sarcasm in Xander's voice. "Better take advantage of my chivalry while you still can. I'll be too stiff in the morning."

Stroking Bugsy's ears, she nodded goodbye to Angel and Cordelia and followed Xander through the cemetery. He was fidgeting with his stake and glancing around nervously. Jane was still trying to reorganize her world. Vampires, demons. Those weren't too bad. She'd grown up with a head full of fantasy worlds: monsters, superheroes. Most of her childhood had been spent searching for the unicorns and fairies she knew had to be out there somewhere. But Xander? Where did he fit into all of this? How did he know about demons? And why had he been in a cemetery chasing vampires? Patrolling? It explained the weirdness that was Sunnydale. The way people didn't go out at night unless they were with friends. The high mortality rate, the fact that the high school had been destroyed twice in the last ten years.

"So." Xander tucked the stake into his jacket.

"So." Jane dropped Bugsy when he started to squirm, watching as the cat darted down the sidewalk to her front door. "How long have you known?"

"High school. Sophomore year."

"How?"

"One of my friends. Buffy. She's the Slayer."

"Slayer?"

"Vampire Slayer. One girl in every generation, chosen to fight demons and vampires." He scuffed the soles of his shoes on the front step as they arrived at her apartment. "Except there's actually three now. Long story."

"Oh. Loophole?"

"CPR."

"Cool." She inspected her umbrella, grimacing at the drying blood on the end. "Stake through the heart, huh? Everything else true?"

"Crosses, holy water, garlic, the invitation thing. Yeah. And Dracula's real too."

"Really?"

"The whole smoke and turning into a bat, all true. And the weird mojo with the eyes."

"Look into my eyes," Jane intoned with a heavy Transylvanian accent. "Like that?"

"Yeah. I hear there were even beautiful women in the dungeon. Giles found them. Some guys have all the luck. I got stuck with the bug eating detail."

"Giles?"

"Buffy's Watcher. He trained her, reads a lot of books, and has the cleanest glasses in the Americas. He's British but we've managed to knock some of the stuffiness out of him. There's hope."

"Wow." Jane brushed her hair out of her face. "Why do I get the feeling you could tell me stories for years?"

"You have no idea."

"Again with the wow because this is...this is just crazy."

Xander stared down at his feet, shuffling nervously. "And this is the part where we do the nice to know you routine and go our merry ways. It's cool. I mean, if you want to go back to not knowing. Not that you can actually not know but you can pretend to not know and people here are really good at that. If they ever make denial an Olympic event, Sunnydale residents have the gold in the bag." He stopped to breathe and gave her a timid smile. "I guess I'm trying to say that I'll understand if you don't want to see me again. It's a lot to take in and not a lot of people can handle it."

"And miss out on all those stories?" Jane smiled when he looked up at her in surprise. "I'm not saying I'm not freaked. I'll go in and lock all the doors and crawl under the covers with Bugsy and be terrified. But hey. That's life. If we spend it all pretending there isn't anything scary or wrong out there, we're not living."

"What if I told you the world was going to end?" He was still watching her with a look of pure amazement.

"Then I'd say...come on in and we can hide under the covers together. Without Bugsy. He sheds."

"Really?"

"So the world's going to end. We live with that over our heads every day." She dug through her pockets for her keys. "Army brat, remember? My dad was convinced that everything was going to go up in one giant mushroom cloud. Nuke the planet. World War Three. The world is always going to be ending. It's what you do before the end that counts." The door swung open and she stepped inside, waiting for him to follow her.

He stepped across the threshold nervously. "Good attitude."

"Xander."

"Yeah?"

"Anything else you haven't told me?"

"I helped saved the world a couple of times."

"Really?"

"One time, there was this Hell God..."

* * *

"Roberts! Roberts!" Iverson pushed away from his computer in triumph, brandishing his notepad and pen like trophies. Three days. He had spent three exhausting, caffeine laden days searching for the answer he knew lay hidden within the Council's records. The truth about the past. About William the Bloody.

"Sir?" Roberts looked just as haggard. The world was falling apart and the nations of the Earth had finally heard their wake up call. There wasn't a member of the Council who wasn't scrambling to answer questions and meet diplomats.

"It was so obvious. Right under our noses the whole time and we never saw it. Call a meeting. The others have to know about this."

"Sir?"

"I know they're busy. It'll take five minutes." Iverson waved him away and poured himself another cup of coffee. After the meeting he'd head home for shower and some sleep. Grabbing his phone, he managed to dial the numbers without spilling the coffee or dropping his pen. A feat, considering how little sleep he'd gotten over the past three days.

"Storage? This is Iverson." He fumbled for the right piece of paper. "I need something brought up. Lot number 4-2-7. Yes. Immediately. Take it to the library. Thank you." The receiver clattered back into place and after awkwardly grabbing several folders off of his desk, he headed for the library. It wasn't the most pressing issue on the table and Weatherby was bound to grouse about being pulled away from the ambassador of what-have-you. But he was the Head Watcher and it was his prerogative to call meetings whenever he bloody well felt like it. At least there was one piece of news that they would consider meeting worthy.

He waited impatiently, going over some of the memos and letters he had ignored in his search for Spike's past. Nowhere in the Watcher's diaries or any other record had he found undeniable references to sexual or romantic relationships between Slayers and vampires. It was all fight, die, another gets called or fight, dust, move on. Although it was possible that past Watchers hadn't mentioned it or hadn't known, it didn't detract from Iverson's budding theories. In fact, it might even warrant further research into past Slayers. He knew he was right. He had to be.

"Sir?"

"Yes. Bring it over here." Waving the young men into the room, he watched as they set the thin crate against the wall and unlatched the fastenings. Wrapped inside was a medium sized oil painting the Council had obtained in an estate sale decades earlier when they still had complete records of all of the Slayer lines. He smiled at the painting and motioned for them to place it on the table. The resemblance was uncanny. Too much so to be pure coincidence.

"This had better be good, Iverson." Weatherby demanded as he breezed into the room. "I have Ambassador Zabuti in my office."

"It won't take all day." Iverson smiled as he searched through his folder. Where was that picture? Ah. There it was. He looked back and forth between the photo and the painting. Amazing. The very last place anyone would have looked. Finishing off his coffee, he grimaced at the taste and sat down. The other members of the Council hurried in, anxious to get back to what they had been doing before Roberts interrupted them. Once all the seats were filled and his loyal assistant had taken his place, Iverson stood up to get their attention.

"Thanks for coming on such short notice. I have some interesting news."

"Please tell us the team has found Spike."

"Our team has narrowed his location down to a few city blocks and they expect to have confirmation by the end of the week. I believe that we will have him by Sunday at the latest. I suggest you all pray the world can hold on that long."

"Finally. Good news."

"I also have a report from Mr. Wyndam-Pryce that Cara is in Los Angeles and under his watch."

"Have you lost your mind?" The expected outrage from Weatherby was amusing.

"Did I forget to tell you that I had reinstated him as a Watcher? With all the chaos around here...must have slipped my mind." Iverson bit back his laughter as the other man began to turn red. "But that's not why you're here. I wanted to share a discovery with you." He held up the painting so that the entire table could see it.

"This was done by a Dr. Alvin Seymour Gull. He practiced medicine from the mid 1860s through the turn of the century. Good man. You might recognize the name. Lawrence Gull was the Head Watcher for many of those same years. Brothers." Iverson handed the painting to Roberts and flipped through several pages of his notes. "Lawrence was able to convince Dr. Gull to take on a patient, keep watch over her and her family. She was the only daughter in one of the Slayer lines that had been dwindling. Accidents, disease, the usual. Two of her brothers were lost at sea at a young age. Since she was never called, she had ample time to bear and raise a child. A son named William. This is a portrait of the woman and her son. Quite lovely, isn't it?"

"Where is this going, Iverson?"

"You'll see." He pulled the glossy eight by ten out of the folder and passed it to the right. "Hand that around. This picture was taken almost a year ago by one of the teams sent to capture Spike. Early in the spring of 1880, Dr. Gull reported that his charge and her son had disappeared. The house was left untouched. The cook arrived in the morning and found it deserted."

Caldwell stared at the picture in his hand. "It can't be."

"It can. 1880 is one of the possible dates for the siring of one William the Bloody." He turned to the painting. "Take off the glasses and bleach the hair. It's him. It has to be."

"Even if it is true." Weatherby frowned, swiveling his head back and forth between the photo and the painting. "Why is it important?"

"What if...just what if...it's the reason Spike sought out Slayers. Managed to kill two of them and then proceeded to form relationships with two more. What if it's not a coincidence? What if, at some basic molecular level, what Buffy and Faith have been attracted to are the Slayer genes in Spike."

"But the body is dead."

"The genetic material is still intact until he is dust. Frozen in time as it were." Iverson rubbed his eyes. "Like calling out to like. It might not be important at all. It might just be interesting. We know so little about how the Slayers were made, how they're called. Which chromosomes are Slayer genes and which aren't."

"No. I understand what you're saying." Caldwell finally dragged his eyes away from the painting. "It means that Slayers could be more vulnerable to vampires from Slayer lines. Something physical that they have no control over."

"It's possible."

"If they had known five years ago." Weatherby drummed his fingers thoughtfully. "We could have prevented all of this."

"Is there anyone left?"

"Our records are by no means complete but I don't believe there is anyone remaining other than the three active Slayers." Iverson took a deep breath. "The Hendersons were found last night. They were the last family we knew of."

"What this means," Caldwell leaned forward. "Is that if the world doesn't come crashing down around our heads and we somehow manage to restore the Slayer lines, they must be carefully guarded. Protected. Controlled."

"A rather large if, considering the current state of decline." Weatherby scowled.

"Optimism, my friend. Optimism."

* * *

The self-proclaimed vampire Master of New Orleans gave evil a bad name. He strutted and preened, a peacock lording over a rag tag gang of undead imbeciles. More concerned with luxury and petty human manipulations. Caine sighed and poured himself a drink. Why couldn't Spike have chosen a city with a decently ruthless vampire Master? Boston perhaps. Or Chicago. Anywhere but New Orleans. The demon community here was more interested in getting thoroughly sloshed and picking out drunken festival goers. No pride in their work, no thrill in the hunt and no interest in a good slaughter. Even the humans living there slid decidedly toward sex, drugs, and rock and roll on the vice scale. There wasn't nearly enough hate or violence in the city.

"My men have reported seeing the Slayer near the warehouse." Cable shifted nervously in his chair.

"Good. She'll find him soon enough."

"With all due respect, sir." The word sir came out a little sour. "If she kills him, won't this end before the walls have come down completely?"

"That is correct."

"Shouldn't we stop her then?"

"You needn't worry about her." Caine smiled, wishing he could open the blinds. That, of course, would incinerate the vampires in the room and as much as he wanted to see that happen, he needed them for just a bit longer. "She won't kill him."

"How can you be sure?"

"I know human nature. Regardless, there are already plenty of new demons in this world. It will take years to fight them all. Even if it ends now, there will still be a great deal of destruction to enjoy. It's a win-win situation."

"And the vampire? What happens to Spike?"

"He dies." Caine chuckled and raised his glass. "That's the beauty of this whole plan."

"But if he dies, it ends. How is that any different than the Slayer killing him?"

"There's a world of difference." They had such little minds. Incapable of truly comprehending the brilliance of his plan. "The balance was tipped because his demon fought for a soul. Chose not to kill, to go against its nature. To be good. Restoring the balance was to be accomplished by eliminating the Slayers. Which you have so kindly helped me achieve. There are only the three active Slayers left on this planet."

"I understand that part," Cable said a little impatiently.

"If Spike is killed by someone, say, a Slayer. Then balance is restored, walls come back up, resonance ceases. If, perchance, all three Slayers were killed, we would obtain the same result. On the other hand, if it's suicide...the tables turn." The idiot still didn't understand. Caine shook his head sadly, why couldn't Spike have gone to Boston?

It was infinitely more complex than killing a vampire or destroying a world. Spike was just a tool. Endless futures were in flux. Everything this world could have and should have been centuries from now. The final evolution of the Slayer lineage. All of this nipped in the bud and a good bout of carnage to sweeten the deal, with the death of one vampire. It wasn't about here and now. It was about the chain of events that would have been set in place had the vampire survived, had the Slayers been allowed to continue their development. Events triggering undesirable consequences like ripples in a pond, stretching out into eternity. This was just the beginning.

"What happens if he kills himself?"

"His soul has been taken away. He is just a demon. And if that demon sacrifices itself for the world?" Caine couldn't keep from smiling. "There is no price high enough to restore the balance if that happens. No more waiting. The walls will shatter in an instant and this world will be plunged straight into hell. Forever."

"So the world is saved if someone else kills him but it's destroyed if he kills himself?"

"Exactly. Of course, he doesn't know that." Caine laughed as he settled into a chair to wait.


	29. Promises

**Promises**

The sun was climbing up above the horizon one more time. Or one last time. It was almost lost behind the heavy bank of clouds and overshadowed by the pouring rain. Stormy weather suited Faith, her mood, and the road that lay stretched out in front of her. The stake in her hand bit like ice and it was still warmer than the emptiness that had replaced her heart.

"B's wrong. I'm not in love." She told the garbage can beside her. Good conversationalist. Listened without judging and never interrupted her.

The third vampire had told her where Spike was before she dusted him. In the warehouse behind her, in one of the strange half basements found in southern Louisiana. There were only a few places in the city where you could dig more than two feet without hitting water and even those flooded most of the time despite best attempts to drain them. Underground access tunnels were quickly abandoned, becoming safe havens for alligators, rats, and the occasional getaway. Even that wasn't enough for some of the people to give up the dream of a real basement, usually meant to conceal what they didn't want others to find. They dug as far as they could and built the rest above ground, raising concrete squares that looked like coasters for the buildings above them, floating precariously on treacherous ground.

Rocking slightly, shivering against the chilling breeze and pelting raindrops, she pulled her legs tighter against her chest. Boots scraped against the wooden crate beneath her. Why wood? Why not metal or plastic? A small voice in the back of her mind answered, because wood is alive, it breathes and drinks and rises up to the sun. Blessed by the sun. It wasn't the wood that killed vampires, it was the life inside.

"I think too much." She rubbed her nose with one hand. The garbage can slouched against the cement and rattled with the drum strikes of the kamikaze water droplets careening through the sky to dash themselves into pieces against the rusted metal. Blind to the danger and their own inevitable demise. Like people. Like Faith. She watched them splatter, trickle, rejoin, and eventually become a river pouring down the side of the can and onto the dirty street. Into the tunnels where reptile eyes gleamed and rodent claws tap danced over the ancient stones of someone's misbegotten dreams. Into the earth.

"They're different. Vampire turns a human. Demon moves in and takes over." She curled tighter into her protective ball and huddled against the wall. "Angel. Angelus. Angelus is a bastard." They were meaningless words to a pile of metal and refuse. Empty, hollow words that were the only weapon she had against the fear inside her.

It had happened so fast. Dying, coming back, trailing after him to find her world crashing around her and pain beyond the telling of it. So fast. Pain blurred into cool, strong hands and husky voice soothing and easy in her ears. Her life had changed in an instant, leaving her unsteady and scrambling for balance. It made every kind of sense in the way that never made sense at all. She had changed. So fast. Could it be real if it was that fast? Her counselor in prison had been a stupid, arrogant bitch who had looked down her nose through trendy cat eye glasses and tapped Faith's file with practiced and superficial compassion. Myra. Who said that nothing that fast could be true.

_You form strong emotional attachments very quickly, Faith. But they're not real._

Bullshit. That was her only response before she had leaned back in the chair and kicked her feet up onto the edge of the desk.

_With all the wrong people. You never take enough time to get to know anyone. You let them have control over you._

No comment. Faith kept her mouth shut. She didn't need any of Myra's fucking psychobabble. But she had listened. In spite of all her protestations and denial, she had listened and it had made sense for the first time in too many years.

_You didn't feel loved so you have a hard time loving._

Love was a fucking joke. She didn't believe in love. Faith had turned away, looking out the window and waited for the interminable hour to end. To head back to the rows of bars and hostility from the other women. Because Faith was different. They all knew it and they hated her for it as much as they feared her. They didn't understand. No one understood.

"I'm not in love." She repeated to her metal companion. "But he understood. He did. He knew that I...that I was afraid. He didn't care that I was broken." The lid answered with the clamor of rain. "Broken into all these little pieces and I keep trying to fit them together into something whole. But there has to be something missing because there's still this big empty space right in the middle where my heart should be."

_When was the last time you let yourself love?_

When was the last time anyone had loved her? Had anyone ever loved her? She handed the question to her silent confidant and made a mental note to melt it down afterwards. Couldn't have anyone or anything hear all her secrets, all her pain, and live to tell about it. That's what it was about after all. Pain. The skin on her wrists was still discolored, pink and smooth compared to the surrounding flesh. Bracelet scars she would wear forever. Or until some baddie finally beat her. She used to think no one could beat her. Nothing could beat her, nothing but fear itself.

_You're afraid of being hurt._

Who wasn't? Who got up in the morning and begged the world to hit them just a little bit harder for just a little bit longer? She had. When there was nothing left, nothing familiar, nothing as comforting as the pain. Primitively, it was the most basic human response. Pain kept mankind fighting, kept the huddled masses breathing, kept them all alive. When she hurt, she knew she was still alive. Still real.

Then it changed.

His hands touched her and he made her real again without the pain. Tucked her safely into a fortress of strength and calm, wiped her tears away and didn't care that her face was scarred, her soul was dark with blood and self loathing, or that she'd been just another stupid kid searching for acceptance. And now the whole world expected her to forget about every word, every caress, everything he had been to her. Forget. Be the Slayer. The weight of the world was finally on her shoulders and Faith no longer envied Buffy. She would never be jealous of her again. Never. Except that one insignificant thing that didn't matter anymore. Not really. She cast a sideways glance at the garbage can. It wasn't buying her lies either.

The Spike who had held and comforted Faith didn't exist anymore. There was just the demon now. The demon who had gone to the ends of the Earth to get a soul. For Buffy.

A clap of thunder startled her and she shuddered against the cold, brushing ineffectively at the soaked fabric covering her arms. Angel had loved Buffy, Angelus had hated her. They lived together, bound together in one body, constantly fighting and tearing at each other with Angelus barely in check. Was Spike the same? Only the demon was in love with Buffy and not the soul? Had it been William in her arms all along?

"Not love." She stretched her cramping legs and wiped the rain from her eyes. Slayers don't fall in love with vampires. It couldn't be love. Unless love was supposed to be painful.

This hurt like a bitch.

He was gone. She'd even told them to do it because she was desperate to save him any way possible, even if it meant losing him to Buffy. If it meant that she would never feel safe or cherished again. Could she do it without him? Face the world, face the mirror. Could she ever face herself again? Alone.

Maybe it wouldn't be as hard, knowing that he wasn't the same; that the Spike who had slept at her side wasn't the Spike she had to kill. Maybe it was best this way. The trashcan rattled in disagreement. More lies. If there was any part of the Spike she knew, even a flicker or a shadow, anything left behind inside of him. Anything at all. She'd never let him go.

Not even to save the world.

* * *

It's quiet in my head. No voices. No William. Just me and the howling of the wind outside. At least, I think it's the wind. Where am I? Who am I? Was it this bad after I got the soul? This lost. This confused. Which way is up? Which way is down? Which way am I going? Heaven or Hell. Don't believe. Not anymore. Nothing but dust and wind.

Blood. I need blood. Not really. I don't want it. Not one for self-reflection. Don't have one any way. Not anymore. Not since Dru.

Damn Miss Edith. Bloody doll messed up the whole world. Told Dru to bite me, she did. Fucking doll. Or maybe it was the burning baby fishes. Crazy Dru. Beautiful, damned Dru. Black goddess. Why am I thinking of her again? I don't know. Memories string together like pearls around a woman's neck. Or popcorn draped over the branches of a pine tree. Christmas. Mother. With hair pulled tight and a smile at my poetry. Was it really mine? Mother with long hair, loose and unbridled. Spitting poison at her son. But I'm not her son. Not any longer. Right?

I'm not William. William is gone. They took him away and now I'm all alone. Forever. This body never dies. Not without wood or sun or the curve of a blade slicing through my neck. Does it hurt to die?I t hurt the first time. Just for a moment. Am I dying? It hurts.

_Spike._

Someone is whispering through the howls and roaring silence. There's a voice. Go away, Miss Edith. I don't want any tea. Or cakes or whatever Dru used to feed your bloody porcelain face.

_Spike._

Who are you? Voice? Nameless voice in the air or in my head. I can't tell. What do you want? I have no soul to sell. Not anymore. It's gone. Torn out of me by white little hands and red hair. Sod off. I'm alone. I want to be alone.

_She's coming._

Who? Dru? Mother?

_Faith._

Of course she's coming. My Slayer. Brown hair, long and heavy in my hands. No. Not long. Not since I pulled her from the water. Saved her. Did I save her? No. William saved her. Not my Slayer. What am I? Am I still a vampire? Do I still burn?

_Please don't hurt her._

Why would I hurt her?

_The things he said. About blood and pain. Do you remember?_

I remember. The man. Spinning webs of fantasy and bitter guilt in my head. Before they took William away. Hurt the girl. Save the world.

_He lies. You can't trust him._

Wouldn't hurt her anyway. She's a Slayer. Sweet Faith who hides behind angry eyes and fists. Dark goddess. Not black, never black like Dru. But dark. She still glows. Slayers glow. Like Faith, like Buffy. Slayer for Slayer. Killed two. Fucked two. Even score now.

_Snap out of it, Spike. Pull yourself together._

Sod off. You're just a voice in my head. Last voice in my head was a bloody nasty fellow. Shifty bloke. Anya's dead. I'm dead.

_You can't be crazy when she gets here. She needs you to be strong. They all need you._

I know. Spike has to save the world. Spike the vampire. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Just a pile of dust. Alone.

_You're not alone. I'm here._

Who are you?

_A friend._

Don't have friends. Evil, blood sucking fiend. Undead murderer. Don't feel bad. No guilt here. Just a killer, an animal. Soulless, disgusting thing.

_Spike. You won't be alone. I'll be with you._

You can't be. This body is empty. Just me now. Then...just dust. Empty, lonely dust.

_Listen to me._

Are you Miss Edith?

_It's me, Spike. William._

Bloody Awful Poet.

_The same._

Why? You're gone. I felt you leave.

_You don't need me, Spike. Not any more._

No. I'm not real without you. I'm just a shell. No spark.

_I will always be with you._

Why?

_To help you see. To help you understand._

I don't. It doesn't make sense. Just wind and dust. Dust and wind. And blood.

_You'll know._

What? How? What am I looking for?

_Something...effulgent._

* * *

She was inside now. Out of the rain. But it was still raining and she was still frozen. Another silent step over the dusty floor, making her way through the maze of crates and boxes with all the speed of creeping snail. Pulled forward, holding back. Caught in a tug of war between what she wanted and what she had to do. What would be left for her when he was gone? Did it even matter if the world ended when her entire world would be destroyed with a piece of wood? Faith had always chosen herself above everything and everyone else. Gotta take care of number one; there was no one else to give a damn about her. She was tired of being alone, of looking over her shoulder and watching her back. She hadn't worried about keeping herself safe because she knew Spike would do that. Even from herself.

He was gone, she reminded herself. Another step. William was gone. Spike wasn't hers. She didn't dare believe that he could love her after what he had done for Buffy. Another step. Not hers. She was in the wrong line of work if she was expecting to actually have a relationship that lasted more than one night. Especially with someone who was supposed to be her mortal enemy. Just get down there and do it. Save the world. He knows you're coming and he knows what you have to do. Just get it over with.

There would be nothing left in this world without him, no reason to be the one to save it. She didn't care about the world and it didn't care about her. Never done anything but fuck her over. Gave her a mother who didn't love her, a father she'd never known at all, made her a Slayer so she'd never fit into the normal world. Never be normal. What had the world done for her? Nothing.

She wasn't doing this for the world. It was for Spike. Or William. Whichever one had asked her to be the one to end it. For her Spike. No sweeping nobility or heroic act. She wasn't Buffy. She was just Faith.

* * *

I'm talking to myself. I must be. Round the bloody bend I've gone. There goes Spike into the realm of dancing stars and burning fishes. What is it about souls that leaves sanity in shambles? Chains clink as I shift, trying to find a more comfortable spot against the rough concrete. As if there is such a thing as comfort when one is surrounded by cement. I can smell earth and rock swathed in mold. There are lights above me but the bastard didn't bother to leave them on when he left and I'm lost in the darkness. It's comforting.

Back into the night where I belong, back into the shadows. I'm a vampire. Sex and blood, that's all. That's all that matters other than keeping my body parts out of the sunshine and avoiding pointy wooden objects.

_Not true._

So you weren't a hallucination. Thought I was losing my marbles, finally cracking under the strain. Soul in, soul out. Too much for a bloke to handle without breaking somewhere.

_You're getting better. Not so much with the crazy._

Sound like Buffy.

_Nice girl._

How do you know her?

_You got the soul for her, remember? Brought me back for her._

Did I? Long time ago, mate. Did I love her?

_More than anything._

Did you love her?

_I didn't know her, Spike._

Right. Course. Didn't think of that. Not like you've been up there...wherever...watchin'.

_Not really. Don't fancy watching myself kill people._

Yeah. I can see that. What about Faith?

_She's a good match for you._

For me. Not you then?

_She's too intense for me. Too raw. But you...you like the burn._

Bloody masochist, that's me. Now what? You gonna be lurkin' round in my head for eternity? Not that I have that much of it left, world endin' and all that.

_I'm just here long enough to help you back on your feet._

What happens now?

_You'll know what to do._

I just want the dance to end. Off to my pretty little hell with the rest of the vampires. Maybe look up some old friends.

_You think you know...what's to come...what you are. You haven't even begun._

* * *

He looks the same, she thought absently as the row of light bulbs timidly flickered and then came to life with a snap, pouring light into the room. Blond hair tumbled in loose curls and for a second, she could almost feel it slipping through her fingers again. He would protest, muttering about her messing up his hair and reaching to tousle her own dark locks. Stiffly, automatically, she took the steps one agonizing step at a time. Sweat trickled down her back, betraying the calm expression on her face.

Blue eyes watched her casually. There was the difference. The moment of hesitation, the way he would search her eyes and face quickly before saying something, the flash of indecision while William considered his options - gone. In his place was a creature who took action, who was comfortable and assured with his lightning reflexes. Instinct. Maybe the soul never really adjusted to the inhuman aspects of the demon, always checking strength and speed and being surprised. Face, hands, skin, they were all the same. The ease and confidence in his shoulders was new. Fingers dangled unconcerned over his knees as he followed her progress down the stairs.

The strong thing, the Buffy thing, would be to stake him now while the chains still bound him and tethered him to the wall. He looked wary as she took her first step toward him. A wooden chair was sitting just out of his reach. Gleaming innocently from the seat was a key. She wondered if his captors had intended to return. Had they been caught in the storm? Or had they intended her to find him? The possibility made her pause. She wanted to ask him if he knew if this was a trap or trick. Had they hurt him? Had he fed? If he needed blood, she wanted him to take hers. She didn't have a knife with her but fangs would do and she'd have scars to match the bite from Angelus.

She didn't move or speak. Her eyes were half convinced he wasn't real, just a mirage in the damp silence. Familiar jeans hugged his legs, folding and curving in all the right places. She loved to watch him, follow the play of fabric as he walked. The dark T-shirt tucked into the jeans, his slender waist enough to make even women jealous. If she touched him, he would be solid beneath her fingertips. Muscle and bone. Forever lean and hungry, he always seemed to walk that edge between too little and just enough. He only took what he needed.

He shifted as he got to his feet and she was convinced that he could hear her heart bounding inside her chest like a scared rabbit. But it wasn't fear. She wanted to fall into his arms, to feel safe and protected, for the world to fade away as he kissed and teased until there was nothing left but the feel of his hands on her skin. The amazement in his eyes, as though he was always surprised she was there, lying next to him. Looking at her like she was a triple fudge sundae with blood on top and an untouchable goddess at the same time. With respect. He was the only man who had ever respected her. Granted, the only man she'd ever given a chance and more than a second go. A lifetime with Spike wouldn't be enough. She wanted it. For the first time in her life, she wanted someone, just one person, to be there every night and every morning. To share and have everything with her.

But her Spike was gone. She had to remember that. This wasn't him. Tears threatened to humiliate her in front of the Slayer of Slayers and she fought them back with everything she had. Don't show weakness. Just do it. Just end it now. Her arms wouldn't move. Feet were locked onto the floor hopelessly. She cast a silent apology to the world and to Buffy. Maybe it was weak. Maybe it was wrong. But she needed this. She needed to do this on her own terms. She needed to know if there was anything left to save.

* * *

The dice were loaded.

From the moment Lurky slapped that clawed hand on my chest, it was all downhill. Just trying to get by, like a weed on the side of the road that no one ever really sees and if they do, they wonder how to kill it. A blight on society. I'm the grass in the sidewalk cracks and the static in the radio waves that obscures the best songs. All odds were against me. I should have known. At least my sanity is back. Mostly.

Here I am. Back to what I do best. Slayers.

Faith is standing in front of me. Face white, knuckles white; vise grip on the stake in her hand. Of course she brought a stake. Death with dark hair, doe eyes, and a body to kill for. A million things I didn't do with that body. It's amazing. William steps out and all those inhibitions go with him. Almost. She fits and doesn't fit at the same time. What I feel when I look at her is as confusing as those first few moments after the soul was ripped out of this husk. Uncertainty and clarity all blur together into shifting, sliding moments of understanding lost in a sea of I couldn't bloody care less.

"Spike."

I wish there was time enough to listen to her. Hear every word in the every language, just lie back and let that husky voice wash over me.

"Slayer," I respond coolly. I'm free now. To spend a moment without listening to the poor sods I left in filthy alleys, the women I made scream in all the wrong ways, every child whose innocence ended because of me. Or Dru. Daft bint probably saw this coming. She should've fucking warned me.

"Soul's gone."

Is that a question? Or is she just stating the obvious? Of course the bloody thing's gone. Ripped out of me, felt like someone reached into my chest and tear it out my spine through my rib cage. Who would've guessed it hurt more to lose the fucking thing than to have it put back?

"He's gone," I answer. Cause it wasn't a thing, the soul. It was William. And now that I can see through my own eyes again, not through his, not through the eyes of a human soul, I realize that he wasn't a thing at all. The chains rattle as I square my shoulders, keeping both eyes on her as she moves through the room.

"Is there another way?" Her voice is steady, even. All business.

Please don't do this Faith. Don't be strong. Not now. Don't leave me with nothing but ice and duty. I know what you're here to do. To save the world. I know it's all that matters. Please tell me that I made a difference. Tell me that I'm leaving something behind. With you. God, Faith, don't shut me out now. I stay quiet, grinding my teeth together and choking back the words racing through my mind. They don't make sense and they hurt. Fuck, why do I still hurt? She's still waiting for an answer.

"No." Not one I'm willing to take anyway. I look away, unable to stop the strange whirlwind of emotion and thought threatening to drown me. I want her, her hands and her lips, the feel of her skin and the heat of her blood. I want to her to get away from me, not to see the monster I really am, now that I have nothing, now that I'm not real. What the hell is wrong with me?

"How do you want to do this?"

"Don't fucking care." She jumps at my shout and I force out all thoughts of apology. I'm a vampire. I'm a demon. Demons don't apologize.

"Then we'll do it right." Her hand reaches down to the seat of the chair and she holds up the key to my chains. Has she lost her bloody mind? Don't let me out. Just use the goddamn stake and put me out of my misery. Why am I miserable? The chains fall away. She's careful not to touch me, skin to skin. I can still feel her heat and smell magnolias. I'm going to miss that scent when I'm killing daisies. Soon as I'm free, I pull away from her, rubbing my wrists and desperately fighting back the wave of conflicting emotions. She brings me back to the present with her fist.

"Bloody hell, woman!" I shake my head, checking my jaw for cracks. "Heard about that right cross. Not bad, Slayer."

"Slayer. Vampire. We fight."

"If I win?"

"Then you win." She shrugs casually, fists up and ready. "I don't give a fuck."

"And the whole wide world?"

"Let it burn."

"Haven't seen this side of you, Slayer." I raise one eyebrow and let my gaze rake over that gorgeous body. "My kinda girl."

"Probably right about that." Another swing, I dodge this time and step away from her, not ready to enter the fight. "I haven't seen this side of you either. Spike. Not for a long time anyway."

"Yeah. Warm champagne." I can't keep from laughing. "Was it good for you?"

"The best I've had." Full lips curl into a smirk. "How much of it was you?" She studies me thoughtfully for a moment. "I know how it works. William and Spike. Two people trapped in the same body. Who's been driving?" A boot cracks against my chest, knocking me backwards into the concrete wall. I catch the next kick and flip her over, stepping forward as she lands on her hip and side. My hands burn as I drag her to her feet and leave my first blow stinging across her face.

"Bloody Slayers. You're all the same." I throw back at her, surprised at how angry it makes me, how disappointed. With Buffy, it was all about the soul. No soul meant evil, disgusting thing. No soul meant monster. Faith was no different. She walked down those stairs and saw an animal in chains; wanting to know if she'd let a demon sully her.

"Who was it? Was it you or William?" Voice still level and controlled, she gets another hit in. My head spins with the impact and I grab hold of her, trying to get a firm grip on her arms as she twists away.

"It doesn't work that way." I growl through clenched teeth.

"Who was it?" Dark eyes flash angrily and her voice finally rises. "Were you the one fucking me? Or was it him?"

"It's not like that!" I shout back angrily, dodging her right fist and catching the left in the stomach. Backhanding her sharply, I grab the back of her neck and twist her around to pin her against my chest.

"Who was it?"

"Does it fucking matter? Got you off just the same."

"It matters to me." Her voice is quiet again and I suddenly realize what she's asking. I have to choose. If she thinks I'm not the Spike she knew, it'll be easier for her. I don't think I can hurt her like that. Bloody hell, I have to try.

"Faith." It's the first time I've said her name aloud. Spinning her around, I pull her against me, kissing her hard and urgently. Warm hands latch onto my arms and she presses her hips against mine, driving me insane. I'm shaking when I jerk away, shoving her hard enough to send her crashing to the floor.

She glares up at me from the floor. "What the hell?"

I shake my head tiredly. Pretend it doesn't matter. "Don't get all sentimental. It was just sex."

"Just sex." She repeats in disbelief. "Just sex? You never had it so good, you son of bitch." She's back on her feet and swinging.

I take another hit and leave a mark on her cheek with my own. "Don't get me wrong, you're a tiger in the sack. And that thing you do with your tongue. God. It's bloody fantastic." Grabbing hold of her, I slip my hand between her legs, watching as her breath catches in her throat and her eyes darken. "Damn good fuck. But don't pretend it was some grand love affair."

"You wish." Using my arm as leverage, she wraps her legs around my waist and slams her fist into my jaw. "You're still lost in your Buffy delusion. You're sick. Running off and getting all souled. To be like Angel. You'll never be Angel."

Shaking her off, I send her reeling into the wall, growling angrily. "Bloody hope not. He's a fucking idiot. Him and his suffering and road to redemption. He give you that load of rot too? 'Bout savin' the world and helpin' people? Count your lucky stars you never saw him and Buffy together. Bloody sickening, like watchin' a soddin' soap opera, it was. Doomed as all hell." I pause, realizing that I'm pacing and she's watching me with something akin to amusement. "What are you lookin' at?"

"You. Brooding."

"I don't fucking brood!" My shout echoes through the room.

"Pretty good Angel imitation to me. All you need is the hair gel."

I scowl angrily at her. "I'm not Angel. And I sure as hell ain't William. Bloody awful poet is long gone." Sort of. He hasn't been chattering in my ear for a while now.

"Too bad. I kinda liked him." She massages her shoulder tenderly. "Ready to go again?"

"What the hell are you doin', Slayer? Just stake me and be done with it."

"You want to die?"

"Hell no. Not like I have a bloody choice in the matter? I fucked it all up. World ending bullshit, remember?"

"I remember. Don't care." She moves away from the wall, circling me slowly.

"Not gonna fight

"Why not?"

"Don't want to."

"Yes, you do." She grins, eyes glinting. "I can tell you want it. Come on. Let's dance."

Good fucking lord. She's right. I'm screaming for a good fight. Just violence and blood, fists and fangs. Even William had wanted it, wanted to see her and hear her. Panting, blood pounding, the look on her face as she fought. God, she was amazing. The full Slayer package of death and righteousness all wrapped up in a bundle of curves and heat. I'm across the room in a second. Fingers claw at each other, fabric ripping as we fight each other and ourselves. I need more of her skin, more of her heat and her scent. The way she moans when I grip her breast just hard enough to leave marks, shoving her against the wall and tearing her shirt down the center.

She surprises me by pushing back and backhanding me. Bloodlust is screaming in my ears and I'm struggling to keep the fangs and ridges in check as we crash onto the ground, rolling and hitting across the floor. I haven't had it like this since Dru. Paris. The violence, the pain. Bucking my hips, I toss her onto her back and pin her down with my weight. I know she hates not being on top, not being in control. Half naked, she arches up against my chest, tangling her fingers in my hair and dragging me down into a brutal kiss. Every part of her body is as familiar as my own. I know the curve of her lips, the taste of her skin, salty with exertion and burning against my tongue. My hands know where to touch, grip, caress.

The kiss softens. Fingers spread across my chest and shoulders. Eyes closed, I move my lips to her throat, nipping with blunt teeth and bathing her skin with my tongue. Each movement is so familiar, so comforting. Her legs tighten around my waist, squeezing me with muscles I had only dreamed of for a hundred years. William was right. I love the way she burns me. It felt just the same without the soul. Under these lips and these hands, she would fuck me just the same.

But not me. It wasn't me. These weren't my hands. They were William's. I had stolen his body, murdered and raped with his hands. I was the demon inside and she wasn't really seeing me. Not even my own body. Just a holding pen for something that doesn't belong. She whimpers as I pull away from her.

"Spike?" Breathy, husky, wanting. God, I love that voice.

"It was me." I get back to my feet unsteadily, shaking. "It was always me." Just not my hands.

My head is spinning with the lightning inspiration; I grab hold of it, turning it over and trying to make sense of it. I am not William. I had never been William. All those words. Cecily, the frilly cuffs and collars crowd. They weren't directed at me and never had been. Spent so long, so many years, fighting against the memories this body brought with it, the personality that came with the blue eyes and cheekbones, that I had forgotten it wasn't really me. For more than a century I had fought against the bleeding heart poet I had never been. I wasn't even British. A nameless, faceless demon trapped in a human body.

And there it was. The epiphany of my unlife. I had a soul all along. It just wasn't human. I don't even know what a vampire really is, what I really am. Outside this dead skin, these eyes that aren't mine. Darla used to say that what we were, we would always be; the past would always define us. Somehow. But the glamorous bitch was wrong. I had never been human, not me, not the demon inside. Not until Lurky put William back in with me. And William taught me what it meant to be human. What humanity really was.

Now that I know, I'll never belong in this world. Not a man, not a demon. I've got nowhere to go from here. I've done it all, seen it all. There's nothing left for me in this world. Not even Faith. Slayer, vampire. It's that simple. She has a life ahead of her. I just exist. But she won't even have a chance if the whole bloody mess falls apart around her. She'll spend the rest of her days in blood and battle. The only chance she has, the only thing I have to give her, is dust.

"Spike?" Soft fingers brush against my back as her arms wrap around my waist comfortingly. "What is it?"

Words abandon me. I settle for pulling her into my arms, burying my face in her silken hair in an attempt to ignore the war raging in my head. In a few moments, ugly reality will come crashing back down around us and the same terrible choices will be laid out before me. I know one thing for sure now. I am not the man I was, I am not the demon I was, I have changed. My fantasies aren't of blood and violence, they are of life and love. Could I ever love this woman in my arms? It's a little disappointing that I'll never get the chance to find out, never know what she'd want for breakfast in bed. Never spend exhilarating nights killing demons, watching her fight and knowing, anticipating, the intensity of the sex afterward. Who am I fooling? It's beyond disappointing. She's unbelievable. And I'm going to miss the rest of her life.

"Nothin', luv." I'm dead inside. Nothing clean, nothing living. No goddamned soul. Just a corpse, walking, talking, animated by something dark and unholy. A demon.

"And you stopped short of a home run because of nothing? Sorry if I don't buy that." Leaning her head against my chest, she traces slow circles in my skin.

I shake my head, needing to clear some of the cobwebs away. Sinking to the ground, I pull her into my lap and press gentle, soft kisses against her bare neck and shoulders.

"What should we do now?" Nuzzling my throat, she nips playfully at the skin.

"What do you mean?"

"We could get out of here. Out of this town."

"Faith." My fingers slide through her cool hair. "World's gonna end, luv."

"There is that little detail. But that doesn't have to stop us."

"Aren't Slayers supposed to be all for savin' the bloody world? Think I got that one written down somewhere."

"I'm the bad Slayer, remember? The one who doesn't follow rules. I'm not Buffy."

"Don't I know it." I grin when she glares up at me. "Just sayin' is all. Buffy woulda left the bloody chains on and staked me already."

She gnaws on her lower lip for a second before pulling out of my arms and facing me. "About what you said earlier. That this was just sex, not some big Romeo and Juliet deal."

"Sorry if I hurt you, luv. I don't...I just..." I shake my head as my voice breaks off. I don't understand.

"No. You're right. We don't love each other." She smiles sadly, touching my cheek with a longing that seems incongruous with the rest of her personality. "Once Buffy touches someone, they never really love anyone else. I get that. I just want to know if maybe...if things were different. Someday. Do you think you...I mean, could you...ever?"

"Love you?"

"Yeah."

I cup her face with one hand. "I have nothin' to give you. Just a vampire." Stopping her protest with a kiss, I hold her lips against mine until she has to pull away, gasping for breath. "Promise me somethin'."

"What?"

"Find a nice boy. Like Captain America. Someone who'll take good care of you."

"No such animal."

"Promise." Her skin is hot against my lips as I brush them against her forehead.

"Two point five and the white picket fence?"

"Abso-bloody-lutely." Smiling, I rub my knuckles across her cheek. "Promise me you won't be alone."

"Only if you promise me something." Her fingers stray over my shoulders, dancing across my skin.

"What?"

"Don't die."

"No control over that, pet." My answer is sad and a little forced. Pulling her tightly against me, I hug her with as much force as I dare, trying to hold on to the sensation of her. Just one more moment won't hurt anyone. I close my eyes and savor every scent, every sound, every touch that has been mine for a few short weeks. There are fresh wounds on her back, covered with bandages. I wasn't there to protect her. I just want to protect her.

"Could you ever love me?" I ask suddenly, not sure where the question is coming from. Rephrase. "Do you think you could learn to love me?"

"I don't know." Her eyes skitter away from mine and she's biting her lower lip nervously. "Maybe."

"Without the soul?"

"I don't fucking care about the soul."

"Good to hear." I lift her chin with my left hand and catch her gaze. My right hand closes around the forgotten stake lying at my side.

"You didn't answer my question. Could you? Ever love me, I mean." Her cheeks flush and I can tell she wants to look away. I hold her firmly in place.

"Thought I'd never love anyone after Buffy. Tore my heart out and ripped it to pieces, she did." Brushing one finger over her lips, I pause to wonder how the events of my life arranged to bring me here. To her. "Maybe I was wrong."

Her lips tug into a shy smile. "Maybe?"

"Yeah. Maybe." Smiling easily for the first time, I'm suddenly relaxed. This is it. No need to watch my words or keep up any pretenses. "Maybe I'm half in love with you already, Slayer."

Fresh tears well up in her eyes and her hand comes up to cover mine. I catch the flash of understanding as she sees the stake in my hand and thank whatever devil created vampires that my reflexes are just fast enough. Pain shoots through my chest. My heart. The last thing I see is her eyes. Her tears.

* * *

The Incarnation of Evil felt the world break around him. Walls shattered. Reality ripped into pieces as the last vestiges of the energy barriers collapsed. And then...nothing. Confused, he turned around to see the vampires frozen in place. Unmoving, unblinking. Just stopped. Everything had ground to a halt. As though time itself had ceased to move forward.

Time.

His face distorted into a mask of rage and hatred. He had come too close to have it taken away. "CHRONOS!"


	30. Intervention

**Intervention**

"What's happening?" Dawn felt numb and tingly at the same time. Lost and found; falling apart and coming back together.

Chronos smiled kindly at her. "Your world has ended."

She wanted to cry or scream, anything but sit here calmly listening to the humming in her blood. "Is everyone dead?"

"No. Just waiting." He stood up slowly, looking around at the emptiness that surrounded them. "The time has come. You'll be home soon enough."

"What do you mean?"

"A summit meeting to decide the fate of your world." He waved to the eternal expanse of stars. "But there is something you can do to help."

"Me?"

"Close your eyes."

She did as she was told. It wasn't much of a change from the inky black that surrounded her when they were open. Without visual distraction, the bizarre sensations demanded her attention. Floating, falling, flying; all of the above and none at all. She wondered if there were even words to describe it.

"Breathe deeply. Relax. You'll know what to do. Trust yourself." His voice faded away, lulling her into a dreamlike state.

The boundary of her skin fell away, setting her free. She could feel everything. Green strands of light spread out around her in an endless web of twists and turns. They warmed her fingers when she touched them, vibrating beneath her touch and shimmering through the darkness. Woven together, tight or loose, they spun in carelessly meandering lines. In the distance she could see a patch that was broken, torn apart and tangled into a ball of severed threads. She moved forward instinctively.

Fix them. She had to fix them. Plucking the tattered end of one of the strands, she searched for its mate. It sparkled and danced as she reached for it. Tugging gently, she eased it through the rat's nest of gleaming slivers, bringing the ends together. Smoothing, pinching, the ends caught and twisted together.

One down. A hundred million to go.

* * *

Chronos brushed the girl's long brown hair lightly. Her entire body glowed green as the Key surfaced and began the repair of the dimensional walls. They had wondered at the wisdom of the monks when they placed it into the form of a child. Feared that it would be hindered or interrupted; worried that its power would be abused. Occasionally, mortals possessed surprising insight. Or sheer blind luck. He wasn't sure which had been behind the transformation of the Key.

"Time to face the music." He smiled one last time at her sleeping form before he headed toward the soft glow of the Nexus. Part of him hoped that it would be Alatheia's turn to decorate. Her view was always more comfortable than the barracks Ares provided or the mausoleum Thanatos fashioned for them.

Light engulfed him, blinding for a moment before it dimmed and he found himself in an alpine meadow. Gaia then, neutral ground. He chuckled as he saw Joe setting up a small putting green in the grassy field to practice his short-range shots. Ares was sharpening the blade of a machete and Alatheia had transported one of her models to a large tree stump. An emissary from the Powers sat primly on a marble bench, watching the proceedings with cool detachment.

"Good to see you, Chronos," Gaia welcomed him warmly, simultaneously coaxing a seedling from the ground.

"Always practicing, I see."

"No use wasting valuable time," Alatheia interjected with a sigh. "Not all of us have control over that."

"Who are we waiting for then?" Chronos settled onto large curving root.

"The usual. Caine, Thanatos, the Three Blind Bimbos."

"Name calling really isn't necessary," Joe reprimanded from his miniature golf course. Alatheia ignored him.

A crack of thunder announced the arrival of the Incarnation of Evil. He stormed into the meadow angrily. "Would someone please explain to me what is going on? I do believe that stopping time is strictly forbidden."

"It is," Chronos acknowledged.

"And?" Caine growled impatiently. "Could you flip the switch? I'd like to get back to what I was doing."

"Which would be?"

"Nothing of importance."

"Really?" Alatheia glanced up from her model. "I do believe the utter destruction of worlds tends to fall under the important category. Since it is also strictly forbidden."

"I am merely watching the events. I haven't touched that world."

"Don't think we didn't hear you, Ali," Atropis said sourly as the Fates materialized into the meadow. "Bimbos indeed."

"Shoes. Wear them."

"Must you be so snippy?" Lachies sighed, crossing her ankles elegantly as she sat down.

"Comes with the territory."

Clotho flipped her hair and looked around expectantly. "Is everyone here?"

"Just waiting for Death. Never comes when you want him to."

"I AM HERE." The heavy voice resounded through the meadow as a tall figure stepped from the trees, swathed in dark robes and clutching a wickedly curving scythe in his left hand. "PROCEED WITH YOUR INFERNAL BICKERING."

"Very well. Everyone. Gather round." Joe waved his putter in a circle before taking a seat. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Chronos has stopped time," Caine answered angrily.

"Yes, yes. I see. Anything else?"

"I do believe Ares has left the building. Metaphorically speaking." Alatheia inspected a miniature knight carefully. "There have been half a dozen skirmishes and he hasn't even bothered to show up. I'm afraid they all ended quite amicably."

Ares didn't look up from his blade. "Other dimensions have required my attention."

"Gaia has declared war on the demons of the Earth. Just the demons, mind you," Alatheia continued conversationally as she found a place for the knight.

Caine glared murderously at the Incarnation of Life. "What is going on?"

"You forgot something, Caine. In all your careful planning. You forgot one little thing." Alatheia turned away from her castle and eyed him coldly. "We don't like being jerked around anymore than you do, your Evilness."

"You're mistaken."

Alatheia raised an eyebrow. "You do remember that's impossible, don't you?"

"What has he done?" Joe inquired thoughtfully.

"He has had direct dealings with a vampire on the mortal plane. A vampire who has been responsible for the eradication of the Slayer lines."

"That is within the interpretation of the bargain."

"But it was never the intended result. Of course, I'm sure you merely misunderstood the Fates. They do favor riddles." Alatheia waved to the three sisters.

"Regardless, I can't be held responsible for the actions of a vampire."

"But you were."

Caine shifted uneasily. "You can't prove it."

"I don't have to. My word is all anyone needs. Be that as it may, I have one question." She paused to tap her fingers against the fake hillside sweeping up toward the drawbridge. "How did one vampire, a particularly despicable one at that, get his hands on such complete records of the Slayer lines? Enough that he was able to eliminate all but the three active Slayers. No one in his world has that kind of knowledge, not even the Slayers' guardians."

"Am I supposed to know the answer to that?" Caine met her gaze evenly. "It's not like I bothered keeping a detailed family tree. And I'm certainly not the only one who has interfered."

"Given." Alatheia sighed as she straightened one of the tower pennants. "It was Joe who gave him the soul."

Caine stared at his antithesis with surprise. "You what?"

"That is why we didn't see it coming," Clotho chimed in. "It was not meant to be."

"About that?" The emissary from the Powers raised her hand. "What about our Champion?"

"His fate has been restored. Not quite the same but restored," Atropis answered without giving the girl a second look.

"Then you have certainly interfered more than I have," Caine argued.

"But you're missing the point, Caine. We've all interfered. Well, almost all of us. And you know what that means."

"All? How?"

"We have rearranged the threads of men," Lachies said cheerfully. "The Slayer was supposed to die. The vampire was supposed to die years ago, in the battle against, well, you. We altered his death."

"And at Joe's request, we arranged for the circumstances that led to his journey to Africa." Clotho smiled happily, kicking her feet through the tall grass. "Although he didn't tell us why. And we never ask."

"We have found him a new fate," Atropis continued.

Caine frowned. "He's dead."

"And that would be where Thanatos comes in." Alatheia motioned for Death to come forward. "Wave that magic wand of yours and get the mortal coil back here."

"VERY WELL."

"No." Caine clenched his fists furiously as he watched a human body materialize in the soft grass.

"One little detail." Alatheia smiled icily. "A world in ruin is not an ending. It's a beginning."

"No," he repeated, shaking his head in denial. "It can't be."

"To build, you must first tear down. The vampire's act of sacrifice was the final justification for our intervention. You'll find it is well within interpretation of the rules."

"It has to be unanimous," Caine snapped bitterly. "We must all retract for it to be binding."

"You're the only one left and we can stay here as long as you want. Isn't that right, Chronos?"

Chronos looked up from the flower he was admiring. "How ever long it takes, my dear."

Caine's human manifestation shimmered and shifted as he fought with his temper. All of his planning, years and years of careful maneuvering so he wouldn't be detected had been thwarted by one lowly vampire who had somehow managed to convince the very pedestals of reality that he was worth their intervention. "What do you expect me to do?"

"You are going to exult a demon."

* * *

There's a light ahead. A soft, gentle light that reminds me of blue skies and sunflowers. That doesn't seem right. Shouldn't it be brimstone and fire? Blinded, I raise one arm to shield my eyes until they adjust. Sunlight. I'm standing in the sun again. My eyes finally focus and I blink, confused, at the arm in front of me. I know it's mine. It does what I tell it to. Up, down. Fingers close, fingers open. Except they aren't really fingers, more like claws. Long, black claws curving wickedly from the ends of gray green skin. Pale, bony spines line my knuckles and pepper my arms. Touching my face hesitantly, I feel more spines along my chin and forehead. Fangs are the same at least.

I'm surrounded by soft grass and trees, an alpine meadow dotted with wild flowers and filled with birdsong. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Is this heaven? I don't understand.

An older man with long white hair and a beard materializes at my side, sitting on a tree stump and watching me. "Hello, Spike."

"Am I dead?" The voice that leaves my lips is foreign, a guttural growl that would sound menacing regardless of the words.

"I'm afraid so. There was no other way."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Chronos." He twirls the tip of his beard thoughtfully.

"Where am I?" Wait. I'm dead? Right. Didn't bugger that part up then. "Faith? Is she all right? What happened?"

"Your world has collapsed."

"What?" I sink down onto the ground, still mesmerized by the sight of my claws. My mind is racing with questions and possibilities. "Supposed to save the world if I died."

"Yes. But not at your hand." The benevolent expression gives the impression that he's speaking to a small child. "Balance was lost when a demon sought to be good, what do you suppose happened to it when that same demon sacrificed his life for the world?"

"Bloody hell." I close my eyes, burying my face in my hands. Feels weird with all the spines. I should have known. If I'd only thought it through for one goddamn minute, not been so blind. So intent on saving Faith and Dawn. I'd killed them all.

"They're safe, for now."

Looking back up, I search his face for reassurance. "What happened?"

"I am an Incarnation, Spike. Of Time, to be precise. We build and maintain reality." Chronos reached out, plucking a daisy from the field and twirling it absently. "As a rule, we are forbidden to interfere in the affairs of men. However, there are strict sets of circumstances that allow and, in fact, require our intervention. It's quite complicated, actually, all the pieces that need to fall into place at precisely the right moment."

"Is he talking your ear off?" A woman's voice rings through the meadow and the Oracle appears next to Chronos. "He has a tendency to ramble."

"I remember you." Dazed, I flick a claw through the grass, surprised when it slices cleanly through the green stalks. "What happened to me?"

"This is what you truly are. Your demon form." She settles onto the ground beside me, reaching out to brush her fingertips over the spines along the back of my hand. "It has been so long since a true vampire has walked the earth that it has been forgotten."

"I don't understand." I think I remember what happened, my last few moments on Earth. Faith. Tears. A stake in my hand, the wind outside.

"It was imperative that you didn't." Alatheia smiles and I notice that she seems tired. For a brief instant, I can sense the agelessness in her. She has lived forever and seen everything. I don't envy that existence.

"Why don't you explain it to him?" Chronos nudged her shoulder gently. "I'll return shortly." I blink as he fades away, leaving an empty tree stump and a limp daisy.

"Reality is not static." Her fingers continue to play over the back of my hand, soothing the panic and confusion. "It requires maintenance. That is where we come in. The Fates balance the scales, keeping the playing field as level as possible. They control the lives of men, the twists and turns. We all have our duties, our places in this universe. Laws we uphold and abide by. When you altered the balance, the Fates brokered a deal to restore it. You for the Slayers."

"What do you mean?"

"No more Slayers were to be called. But one of us, Caine as you know him, took it a step further and began destroying all possible Slayers. He knew, of course, that the forces of good would eventually find a way to reactivate the lines if he didn't eliminate them. It's all about power and politics, unfortunately. Even the good guys play the same dirty game. I have no doubt that the Powers would have found a way to kill you to regain their control over Angel." She watches me for a moment, her dark eyes sober and unblinking. "You have been the variable that both sides have struggled to define. We have batted you back and forth like a toy, pulling and pushing. And you have fought all of us. That is what made this possible. Your world is gone and it will never be restored. Your death, your sacrifice, has ensured that it can never be the same. But we can build you a new world, with a different balance."

"How?" I choke out, still reeling from her words.

"For a new reality to be warranted, each one of us must be willing to break the rules that bind us. In a way, it proves that the old reality is obsolete and needs to be replaced. Good and Evil always get a head start, moving behind the scenes long before the rest of us get involved. Joe orchestrated both pain and evil to manipulate you into fighting for a soul. The chip in your head, everything. Chronos has stopped time to protect those you love until the reconstruction is finished. Gaia has rained down death and destruction in the defense of your world when she is bound to protect all life. The Fates have woven you a new destiny should you choose to accept it. Ares has turned his hand to peace rather than war, although, he is actually doing it for a girl. Very Helen of Troy, without any of that unparalleled beauty nonsense. Who would have thought that War could be so romantic?"

"You've all done...what you can't." I'm still trying to twist everything into some sort of sense.

"Precisely."

"What did you do?"

"I thought that would be obvious. I lied." Alatheia brushes her hand over the grass, taking a deep breath of the cool air. "Had you returned to New Orleans and reunited with Faith, you would have been killed by Miss Summers. I sent you into Caine's hands to isolate you. It needed to be Faith who found you because she would not be able to kill you. She is ruled by her heart."

"You wanted the world to end?"

"It was the only way to give you what you deserve."

"And what is that...precisely?" I ask slowly, afraid to hope for anything at all.

"To live," she says with unexpected compassion, taking my clawed fingers into her hands. "Sleep, eat, have babies, get a dog. To be a man. To have a choice."

Everything seems to be closing in around me and expanding away at the same time. It's overwhelming. Just the idea, the thought. To live and die and be part of the world. To be real. Everything I had believed to be so far beyond my reach that I couldn't even dream. I can't even begin to get a grip on what's happening to me.

"Why?" How have I come to this? What have I done to deserve this?

"You know what they say...Truth shall set you free." Alatheia pulls away as two figures appear. Chronos resumes his perch on the stump. The man with him hesitates as he takes a seat next to me, smiling timidly. Blue eyes, wavy brown hair. It can't be.

"William?" His smile widens, pleased that I've recognized him.

"Pleased to finally meet you, Spike, in the flesh. Or rather, in the spirit. I feel as though I know you so well."

"Yeah." Gruffly, I agree. "Thanks, mate. For...everything."

"My pleasure." William grins excitedly. "Have they told you? About the trade?"

"Trade?"

"I hadn't gotten to that part." Alatheia shakes her head amusedly. "Why don't you tell him?"

"Really? Right then." William straightens his shoulders and fixes those blue eyes on me. "You see, since you're a demon, if they just gave you a body it would look the same as you do now. They have to give you a human body and in order to do that, a human soul has to relinquish the claim on their body. Give it to you, so to speak. Naturally, I've offered mine, since you would already be familiar with it and you had it longer than I did anyway."

I'm speechless. Somehow I think that it's going to be happening to me a lot.

"Of course, our body did turn to dust but Alatheia has assured me that it isn't a problem," he continues, oblivious to my shock. "I don't quite understand how it works myself. A sort of conservation of mass or energy or both."

"Thanatos' contribution. Bringing to life what was dead," Chronos adds in explanation.

Claws dig into the earth, cutting through the dirt like paper. "What about you?"

"I'll go back to the dimension where I resided before I returned to you." He seems unruffled by the idea, as though what he was doing was as commonplace as the sun shining.

"What happens now?" I turn to Alatheia. "What about the world?"

"It is being rebuilt as we speak, with a new balance and a new set of rules." Chronos exchanges a quick, meaningful glance with Alatheia. "There is one choice that you need to make."

"What?"

"We can send you back at a beginning...giving you the entire lifespan from infancy to old age. Or we can send you back at the age of the body at which it died. You will have all of the memories of a human life."

"The catch?"

"None of your own memories. At the most there will be a echoes, dreams, deja vu, nothing substantial and they'll cease completely as you age." Alatheia sighed with a note of regret. "I'm afraid that Caine wasn't happy about having to release you. It was part of the deal."

"So I won't remember anything." I frown as I try to fit that into the picture they've painted for me. "Will I be able to find them again? Find Faith again."

"It's possible but we can't guarantee it."

"But there's a chance."

"Yes."

"Then I'll take it." I can tell by William's ecstatic smile that I made the choice he wanted. Just a few more loose ends I need tied up. "Will I be evil?"

"No. That is Caine's sacrifice." Alatheia shakes her head firmly. "To be capable of animating a living body, you must endure ascension. Take on a new, more pure form before you merge with the human shell. You will have the capacity for both good and evil but you will not be predisposed to either side."

"And the Slayers?"

"The time of Slayers as you know them has come to an end. It is time for the next evolution." Alatheia holds up one hand. "It is not necessary for you to know more than that. You won't remember anything we've said anyway."

"Dawn? What about Dawn?"

"Also safe. We will return her when we return you." Chronos beams as he stands up. "Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be." I get to my feet slowly, a little terrified at what is going to happen next. The sun above me seems to grow and expand, increasing its intensity until I have to close my eyes and duck my head. Holding fast to the dream of a real life, I grit my teeth against the burning sensation spreading through my skin. Any pain, any sacrifice is worth this. Worth the chance to find her and be with her again.

* * *

Chronos waited for the signal from Alatheia that meant both Spike and Dawn had returned safely to their world. One finger rose and Time resumed its relentless march forward. Dimensional walls flexed and solidified, blocking passage between the worlds. Earth continued her assault on the remaining demons, swallowing, burning, or driving them back into the depths of shadow. Balance was restored.

Alatheia returned to her cottage, smiling a little sadly as she tucked the last miniature book into the library of her finished castle. Wind danced through the windows and fluttered the tiny flags on the turrets. Time to begin another model. Perhaps a French castle this time. Something hideously ornate that would take at least a few thousand years. For the first time, she didn't feel the same enthusiasm.

"Humanity is a wonderful thing, isn't it?" Chronos asked softly.

She shook her head. "It's a disease. Advancing the evolution of the Slayers so quickly. It wasn't supposed to happen for another five hundred years. Mankind isn't ready."

"It will all work out. Don't worry." He patted her shoulder. "Do you need an extra pair of hands?"

"You could always help me pick out a new one." Dragging a heavy trunk from beneath the table, she dug through stacks of blueprints until she found the plans she hadn't already tried. "There's a Roman basilica, a Vigorian palace...here's a cathedral. French."

"Let's try that one."

"You don't have to help me."

"And you didn't have to help Spike either."

"Nonsense." Alatheia waved him away. "I always defend honest creatures. And anyone who dares stand up to me deserves anything I can do."

"Softie," Chronos chuckled.

"It's the cheekbones." She grinned as his laughter increased.

Chronos wiped his eyes as he settled onto one of the stools, trailing a finger over the battlements. "Caine won't give up."

"He never does. Neither does Joe, for all his niceties and good manners, he's just as ruthless." Alatheia hefted a bucket of dark clay onto the table to begin making the individual bricks. "What about the Key?"

"Fascinating. I believe we might have to add another Incarnation to our ranks...someday. When she's ready."

"Will there be side effects of her being here?"

"Possibly. It will be a little closer to the surface, a bit more accessible. Nothing we need to worry about."

"Good. I can only take a crisis like this every billion years or so. Thank whoever I'm supposed to be thanking...probably me...that the world should do fine by itself for at least another million millennia."

"Yes. It does afford some peace of mind." Chronos paused thoughtfully. "What exactly was the loophole, Alatheia? If you don't mind my asking, of course."

"Intent."

"How so?"

"A grand and noble gesture is easier than personal sacrifice. Joe appreciates those who give themselves for the world but it isn't always the purest of motives and rarely impresses the rest of us."

"And?"

"He didn't do it for the world, Chronos. He did it for her."

"The Slayer?"

Alatheia nodded. "He had to win the loyalty of all of the Incarnations. Even Caine, in his own way, proved to be loyal to the vampire by saving his life again and again. I'm sure he isn't happy knowing that he helped make all this possible."

"Who did he win over by sacrificing himself for the Slayer?"

"The hardest of us all to please. Thanatos." She smiled, searching for a place to put the finished castle and clear enough working space for the next project.

"What will happen to Spike?"

"He'll get by, he always does. And William will watch over him. He's quite fond of the demon actually, such a tender heart." She paused as she organized her tools. "Did Ares really do it for a girl?"

"Absolutely. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was in love."

"Poor sod. Relationships between Incarnations and mortals never work out. Should we remind him what happened the last time Death took a holiday? Broke his stone cold heart."

"He'll be fine." Chronos frowned as he inspected his trowel. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Why don't you just keep me company? I'll even zap you all the martinis you want."

"That would be lovely."

"And you won't have to pick clay out of your beard for the rest of eternity."

"Very considerate of you."

"That's me. Incarnation of Consideration." She winked mischievously and dove into her brick making.

* * *

Faith had never understood the desolation of a vampire's fate, the absolute nothing that was left behind. She'd taken it for granted. Vamps dusted and that meant no messy clean up afterward; no bodies to dismember or burn, just walk away and let them disappear. Now it felt cruel and empty, taking away anything that might have served as a reminder. Shivering, she wrapped her arms over her bare chest and glanced around the room. She felt numb. Hollow. Her t-shirt was beyond salvage, he'd ripped it down the center. He always had been impatient with clothes. Luckily, she'd gotten his shirt off with minimal damage during their roll and tumble across the floor. Trembling, she slipped the soft fabric over her arms. It was too large and ripped in several places. Didn't matter. It had been his and now it was all she had.

Tired, she returned to the patch of dust on the ground and curled up beside it. One fingertip touched down on the rough floor, tracing a pattern in the dust. Vaguely, she was aware that drawing in someone's ashes was morbid but she didn't care. There was nothing left to care about in the whole wide world. It had been him all along. Her Spike. It had been him. Now he was gone and she was alone. Outside, the howling of the wind eventually faded into silence. She could almost feel it, could taste the emptiness as it poured into her and leeched away all warmth and life.

The sound of boots broke through the silence. She registered the noise without understanding what it meant. Meaningless noise and vibrations through the concrete. Voices somewhere in the distance.

"Faith? Are you okay? Faith?" Someone was talking to her.

She looked up into concerned brown eyes. Camouflage pants, body armor, rifle. There was a stake on the man's belt. She blinked. It couldn't be him.

"Slayer?"

"Riley?" she breathed. Captain America. Wouldn't Spike love the irony? Wouldn't Buffy just die when she saw him? Small world. And getting smaller.

"Faith, focus on my voice. Where's Spike? Is he here?"

"There's nothing left." Her finger stopped moving and she stared at the dust on her skin. "He's gone."

"Let's get her out of here. I think she's in shock."

Not shock. Just empty. Everything slipped out her ears and into the dust on the floor where Spike was. She didn't want to leave him all alone. It was cold there and he would be lonely. Strong hands were lifting her up; she couldn't make her legs move. Jello legs, wobbling and bending when they weren't supposed to. Stupid legs. Stupid hands...not fast enough. Not fast enough to stop him. God, someone stop him. Please. She didn't want to be empty.

"Sir?" One of the men looked back at his leader.

"Go on. I'll find someone to take care of her...a friend." Riley was staring at the ground. Dust was scattered in the irregular pattern that he recognized as the remnants of a vampire. In the center, Faith had drawn the shape of a heart with a jagged crack down the middle.

* * *

Cara wiped demon goo off of her arm and pulled a face. The sewers were flooded and demons who normally kept to themselves had come slithering out of the depths to snatch and terrify the residents as they ventured out of their homes. At least the storms appeared to be over and the sun was trying to shine through the clouds again.

"Hey, Wes. Any more down there?" Gunn called through the opening of the access tunnel.

"I don't think so. We'll do one more sweep before heading back."

Cara nodded and transferred the dagger to her left hand to give her right arm a rest. Water tugged at her legs as she followed Wesley down another side tunnel in search of a few more monsters to kill. He was different than the Watchers she remembered at the Academy. Although they didn't actually spend a lot of time in conversation, she knew that everything he said was something he felt was important. Mostly weapons and demon related. She knew he was pleased with her knowledge of demon species and languages. Her fighting upset him, she knew that too. She'd seen the haunted expression on his face. Someday, she'd ask him why.

He had an edge. She'd noticed that almost immediately. Even among those he considered friends, he was reserved and at first she had thought she saw insecurity in his aloofness. After watching the group fight together, she had realized that he kept them at a distance not because he was insecure but because he didn't quite fit into their dynamic. There was an almost tangible history between him and Fred. When Gunn wasn't with Gwen, the tension seemed to spread to him as well. It was the darkness in Wesley set him apart from the others and gave Cara hope that he might understand the world through her eyes.

"Look out!"

She had been so tangled in her thoughts that she hadn't sensed the squid-like creature hissing through the tunnels. A muscled tentacle shot toward her, stinging spines dripping poison as they drove toward her chest. And collided with Wesley. The long knife flipped in her hand and she severed the tentacle with a quick slice. The creature began to retreat. Following the shimmering eyes, she hurled the dagger into the darkness, rewarded with a satisfying wail as it embedded itself into one of the monster's eyes.

Splashing and coughing called her back to the main tunnel. Dipping her arms into the water, she pulled a stumbling Wesley toward the edge of the tunnel. His shoulder was bleeding and several spines continued to pump their poison into his bloodstream. With a frown, she ripped his shirt away from the wound and took hold of the chunk of tentacle still stuck to him.

"Scream if you need to." She glanced at him briefly, pinning his arm firmly to the brick and pressing her knee against his chest to keep him in one place. The look in his eyes told her that he was going to try his best not to cry out when she yanked the spines from his flesh. He still did. Placing the bloody chunk of tentacle on a jagged ledge, she bit down on the end of the flashlight and started on the stingers. Pinch at the ends to stop the flow of poison. Twist, yank. Sweat was pouring down his face by the time she removed the last one from his flesh. She tucked the flashlight back into a pocket and the piece of tentacle into another.

"Will that be enough? For the antidote." Wesley shivered violently.

"Should be. Depends on how much poison you got." Taking hold of his good arm, she hoisted him to his feet and began the trek back to the exit tunnel. "Why did you do that?"

"Just trying to help, Slayer." He coughed, struggling to stay on his feet.

"I could have dodged."

"Remind me not to save your life again."

"You could die."

"I won't."

"You could." Cara frowned as he staggered against her. She'd seen him take blows meant for Gunn or Fred, always trying to help. Always trying to save the people around him. But they were his friends and it was obvious that he cared about them. Blood glistened as it dripped down his arm, mingling with the dark green of the poison. He had tried to save her. No one had ever tried to save her before. He didn't even know her. It didn't make any sense at all and contradicted everything she knew about Watchers.

Sunlight broke around them as she half dragged, half carried him out of the sewers. Gunn was long gone and they were several miles from Angel Investigations. Easing him down onto the dirt, she inspected the deceptively tiny wounds more carefully. His skin was already pale and clammy, taking on a greenish cast in the bright light. There wasn't enough time. He needed the antidote now.

"Cell phone." He gagged, throat constricting due to the toxins in his blood.

Cara searched through his pockets quickly, locating the phone and tapping in the correct sequence of numbers. It rang once. Twice. Three times. The answering machine kicked in and Fred's cheerful voice beamed through the static. "No answer."

"They're not...back yet." Wesley winced, trying to get a look at the wound.

Cara ripped off a piece of his shirt and dabbed at the wound gently. "You'll be dead in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence."

"It was stupid."

"What can I say?" He tried to smile. "Never been much of a Watcher."

"What do you mean?"

"Most Watchers," he stopped to gasp for air. "Watch their Slayers die without...being able to do...anything. Better this way."

"How is this better?" she demanded, frustrated and confused.

"Watchers should be willing...to do...anything...for their Slayers."

"You don't even know me."

"I know all I need...to know. Cara."

Cara bit down, grinding her teeth together. She hadn't saved anyone. The family in Ohio had been slaughtered just like the others and now she had failed again. Failed to save another innocent. A man who had been trying to save her. Stupid man, stupid Watcher. Angrily, she flipped the phone open again and hit the redial button, tucking it into his hand.

"Keep trying to reach them," she ordered and headed back into the sewers.

"Where...are you?" His voice disappeared in a fit of coughing.

"To test a theory."

Water splashed around her as she ran through the tunnels. Right, right, left, straight. There was the line of broken bricks that had served as a ledge. Fishing out the flashlight, she crept into the tunnel where the demon had come from. Dark eyes glittered lifelessly through the water. With a grimace, she reached down through the mud and filth, grabbing onto the base of the nearest tentacle where there shouldn't be any spines. Rough skin met her fingers and she yanked the body up through the water, pulling it behind her until she reached the crossroads again. The head resembled a lumpy cabbage, spotted with eye patches that swirled and sparkled under the light. Flipping it over, she found the telltale markings of a female. Yanking her dagger out of the creature's head, she cut into the soft underbelly, spilling guts and blood over her hands. If the Council information was correct, the females carried glands that produced a freezing agent to protect their young until they developed a natural immunity to the poison in their mother's body.

Two egg-shaped masses slipped through her fingers. Gingerly, she sliced the tendons holding them and secured them in one of her pockets. Next, she dug through the carcass for the heart; it would contain the most blood. So far so good. She hurried back through the tunnels, ignoring the thick fluid dripping down her hand and fingers.

Wesley was pale as death in the sunlight, the phone sitting loosely in his hand. As Cara knelt beside him, she heard Fred's voice through the small speaker, begging him to hang on. Steeling herself, she cut away the rest of his t-shirt and wrapped her hands around the demon heart, dripping blood onto the wound. His eyes fluttered open and he moaned.

"What?" he rasped, fingers shaking as he tried to raise his arm.

"Chaol Water demons carry their young internally and the females produce antibodies against their own poison." There was the barest hint of a nod. "You'll still need the antidote but this might slow it down." Pulling out the plump glands, she slit one open and dripped white pus onto his bloody shoulder.

"Bloody...hell." Wesley hissed through clenched teeth. "Why don't...you just...kill me?"

"Stop talking. You're wasting energy." Cara emptied the second gland onto the wounds, forcing the ooze into the damaged flesh. "Almost done."

"What's left?" he gasped. "Lemon juice?"

"Not quite." She wiped the wounds clean again and took a deep breath. Holding her left hand open, she drove the dagger through the center of her palm. Tears sprung to her eyes involuntarily as she pulled the blade back through the bleeding hole. Pressing her hand firmly against his wounds, she watched as her blood began to seep into the angry flesh. Wesley was screaming.

Cara shuddered, pain shooting up her arm as she watched him, searching for any sign that her gamble was paying off. After he stopped howling, his eyes closed and his head fell to the side as he passed out, but there was a hint of color returning to his skin. If he could just hold on long enough to get back. There weren't any records of this having worked, there weren't any records of anyone having tried. Just a theory. If the milky substance produced by the mother acted as a substitute for the ingredients in the antidote and if she'd gotten it into his body soon enough. If the part of her blood that made her a Slayer would keep him strong enough to hold on.

Biting her lip, she settled onto the ground next to him, sliding behind him so her arm could wrap around his chest. Supporting most of his weight against her torso, she laid her forehead against the wounded shoulder, flexing her fingers to keep the blood trickling out of her hand. The sun warmed the back of her neck. Just hold on, she prayed. His heartbeat was faint in her ear. Please don't die. Please don't die. She'd never had her own Watcher. Never had a Watcher who was willing to die for her. She didn't want to fail him the way she had failed the family in Ohio.

Screeching tires broke through the stillness and she looked up to see Gunn's Jeep slide around the corner, spraying dirt and gravel. He bolted from the car the second it came to a stop and rushed toward them.

"Fred's brewing up some go-go juice, all we need is some flesh." Gunn checked Wesley's pulse.

"I've got it." Cara nodded and untangled herself from Wesley, looping her arms under his shoulders and helping Gunn carry the unconscious man to the car.

"Did it get you too?" Gunn motioned to her hand as he climbed into the car.

"No. I tried to slow the spread of the poison." Cara pulled the seatbelt over her shoulder and popped open the glove box. The first aid kit tumbled out as Gunn tore away from the vacant lot. Wishing for a roll of duct tape, she dug out the bandages and gauze, wrapping her hand tightly.

"Glad they taught you all this demonology stuff in Slayer school."

Cara braced herself as Gunn ran a stoplight and spun into a left turn. "It's useful."

"How long you figure he's got?"

"He'll make it," she snapped.

"Sorry...just askin'." Gunn glanced at her curiously. "Not that I'm ready for Wes to kick the bucket any time soon. Figured you'd tell me if he was."

"He has to make it," she answered simply, turning her face to the window. Since leaving the Academy, she'd done nothing but fail. Her duty as a Slayer was to save people. If she couldn't save them, why be a Slayer at all? Why even try?

"I told him to leave that nest for later. Cha-Cha's are nasty buggers when they're breeding."

"Cha-Cha?"

"What we call those things." Gunn shuddered. "Lotsa eyes and tentacles with barbs on 'em?"

She frowned, glancing back at Wesley. He hadn't told her that he was aware of a nest. "Yes."

"That's a Cha-Cha. Don't know what they're called but they make that weird noise as they move...cha cha cha...you know." He glanced in the rearview mirror. "He's been so gung-ho with all this Slayer Watcher quality time that he's gotten sloppy."

"It's my fault," she whispered, feeling something inside her sink.

"No way." He shook his head decisively. "Wes just needs to prove that he can be the best Watcher there is. Making up for Faith, I guess." He slammed on the brakes and threw the car into park as they pulled up to the door of Angel Investigations. "Not that Faith's a bad Slayer. Sure, she had a rough spot for a bit but last time I saw her...man...she's one tough bitch. And I mean that in a good way."

Cara listened numbly as she lifted Wesley over her shoulder, carrying him into the building. Fred and Lorne had set up blankets on the ground and Fred was waiting with a blender. After easing Wesley onto the floor, Cara handed over the chunk of the tentacle.

"I'll just...chop this up." Fred pulled a face as she sliced off bits of the meat and dropped them into the blender. "And I thought these were only good for margaritas." She laughed weakly as she blended up the ingredients and poured the thick, gooey liquid into a cup.

"I'll do it." Cara took the mug from Fred and knelt down beside Wesley. Gently, she lifted his head and pressed the edge of the mug against his lips. Eyelashes fluttered as the antidote began to drip into his mouth and down his throat. Come on, Wesley, she urged silently as he began to swallow it down. When he had drained the mug, she reached for the bandages and towels Fred had waiting.

Wiping his wounds gently with a damp towel, she cleaned away all the blood and pus before taping sections of gauze over the torn skin and muscle. Once finished, she settled into a comfortable position to wait for him to wake up. She felt numb and tired at the same time. So many demons, so much blood. There had to be more to life than that. More to being a Slayer. Wearily, she began wiping down the blade of her knife. Always keep your weapons in good shape. They are all that stand between you and death. But it wasn't true. Her weapons hadn't protected her in the tunnels, Wesley had.

"Cara? Your hand." Fred sat down beside her and reached hesitantly for her hand. "Do you need anything for it?"

"No. Thank you."

"He'll be fine now. If you'd like to get cleaned up or something."

"No." Cara shook her head. "I'll stay here."

"We can come tell you when he wakes up. I mean, you really don't have to sit here and wait. He's safe with us."

"No," she repeated forcefully. "He's my Watcher. I will protect him." She didn't notice the smile that lit up Fred's face or the triumphant look exchanged between Lorne and Gunn. Her attention was on Wesley.

* * *

"World's still there." Jane peered through her kitchen curtains. "In fact, it's a beautiful sunshiny day in southern California. I say we call in sick and head to the beach."

Xander opened his mouth to give her some sort of excuse and changed his mind. "Sounds like a plan. A glorious, sunburned, sand between your toes plan."

He was between projects anyway and his schedule was blissfully meeting free for the next two days. A quick stop back to his apartment and a check up at Casa Summers was all he needed to get done. Tapping the coffee mug in his hands softly, he watched her unload the dishwasher, stopping to brush her hair out of her face every few seconds. She seemed to take the world in stride. Demons, no problem, she'd deal. End of the world, no problem, she'd deal. Whatever came up, it didn't get her down. Do what you can and forget the rest, she said. It was a breath of fresh air in Xander's life, knowing that he could tell her stories without frightening her. She was amazingly hard to scare. And he loved the way she cuddled Bugsy, kissing and hugging the cat with unabashed affection.

It was a new experience for Xander to be viewed and touched with such easy warmth. A brush of her hand, a squeeze for no reason, a kiss on the cheek just because. She would be a wonderful mother, he thought absently. Understanding, compassionate, firm. And that was a train of thought that could strike fear in the hearts of even the most intrepid of Xanders. He shook it away, trying to pull back the calm happiness that he had basked in earlier.

They'd spent the hours talking and playing games until they had fallen asleep side by side on her bed. He'd woken to find her curled up like a cat beside him and a pair of curious feline eyes watching him from the pillow. Once he got past the amazement that he'd just spent a night with a beautiful woman that hadn't had anything to do with sex, he laid back down with a contented smile on his face and scratched Bugsy's ears for awhile. Beautiful, fast as a whip, and attitude to go with it. What was it about Sunnydale that attracted independent, feisty females? Extra bonus, the humanity factor. No howling at the moon, vengeance tendencies, or the pesky habit of eating the male after mating.

Jane was smiling as she waved a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Xander."

"Yeah. I'm here, Houston. Thinking that I'm glad you decided to come here. To Sunnydale." He chuckled at his lame response and set down the mug.

"I'm glad too. Now I'm assuming you need to check in with your not so much with the humanity type friends and that you'll call me when you're ready to head for sand and surf."

"Read my mind." Xander kissed her forehead quickly. "I'll be back in a New York minute. How long is a New York minute anyway?"

"On the grounds that neither of us have the slightest idea, we'll skip that lovely metaphor and settle for something more traditional. Which you can pick and choose at your leisure. Granted, you won't have much of it before I get back."

"Assuming you ever leave." She winked as she pushed him toward the front door.

"You're not getting rid of me so you can pack and leave the country, are you?"

"You're not that lucky."

"And you don't have a seal with a goat's head on it in the basement?"

"Just dust bunnies and boxes of comic books."

"Really? Which ones?"

"Go." Smiling, she kissed his cheek quickly and closed the door behind him.

Xander tucked his hands into his pockets and started down the street, whistling cheerfully. Life was good. Sunnydale had been washed clean with the extra large power sprayer of nature and everything that wasn't nailed down had been pilfered by the stealthy hands of the wind; leaving shining asphalt and glistening flora all around. Add the super sized dosage of sunny goodness and there wasn't much more anyone could do to make the morning better. Of course, hearing that all his friends were alive and well wouldn't hurt, which was why he hurried through the motions once he arrived at his apartment. Shower, change, pack a bag with sunscreen, shorts, and beach towels. A couple lawn chairs tossed into the back seat of his car was the final touch and he headed across town, hair still dripping water down the back of his neck.

The Summers home was a haven of familiarity. Buffy had been experimenting with some new flower layouts, something that had surprised everyone. Given her talent for culinary disasters, not one of her friends had expected the leafy green things to respond to the Slayer's touch. When she turned out to have a knack for the botanical world, they'd silently cheered because it gave Buffy something to do outside of slaying and school. As strong as Buffy was and as hard as she tried to pretend that's all there was, they knew that buried under all that Slayerness was the shy, sensitive Buffy trying to hide. Dawn was the strongest advocate of her new hobby and had bought her sister a set of California Gardening books for Christmas. Whatever did a Buffy good.

"Hey, G-man." Xander grinned as the front door swung open. "You're looking bushy eyed and bright tailed."

"You're very lucky the world isn't going to end, Xander. I still don't want you to call me that."

"Wait...world not ending? When did that happen?" He stepped inside and closed the door. "Did I miss the memo? Cause I was entertaining a lady friend last night and might not have gotten the message."

"Yes. Willow is quite angry that you weren't home. She left several messages."

"Oh. Well now I'm feeling the guilt." Xander took in the state of the living room. It looked like a tornado had blown through, scattering books and papers everywhere.

Lounging easily on the couch, Cordelia yawned sleepily and glanced up from her coffee mug. "Hey, Xan."

"How'd patrol finish up without me?"

"The usual. Dusty and bloody. I broke a nail."

"All my sympathy." He moved a pile of books to sit down beside her. "So fill me in on the world savage scoop. Buffy versus the Big Evil, what's the score now? Thirty two to zero?"

"Actually, I believe we have Faith to thank for this one." Giles began polishing his glasses. "Iverson reported this morning that the dimensional vibrations have ceased and that a joint retrieval team found Faith in an abandoned warehouse shortly after dawn. Her only statement was that Spike was gone. There was evidence to suggest that a vampire had been killed."

"Ouch." Xander was grateful he hadn't ever had to make that kind of choice. "Sucks to be her right now. Have you heard from Buffy?"

"Yes. They're going to bring Faith back here. Try to help her. According to Willow, she's completely unresponsive." The Watcher began stacking books and straightening folders. "I can only hope that there's something we can do for her."

"And that this doesn't snap her and send her back into homicidal maniac land," Cordy added bluntly.

"There is that," Giles admitted.

"You don't really think she will? I mean, after all she's been through." Xander frowned and shook his head. "She probably just needs time. I didn't start killing people after Anya died."

"Willow did after Tara was killed," Cordy pointed out.

"Tara was murdered by Warren. If Faith killed Spike..." Xander trailed off, organizing his thoughts. "I just think that maybe we should be more worried about Faith hurting Faith."

"Which is why I advised Buffy and Willow to bring her back here. Where she is among friends. Or at least, not enemies."

"Bring on the Faith support group. Total membership...one." Cordy shook her head. "Because Buffy's really the only person who knows how it feels to murder your boyfriend and she only sent him to hell anyway."

"Who went to hell?" Angel blinked tiredly as he rounded the corner, clothes wrinkled and hair more chaotic than usual. "The whispering is gone."

"Apocalypse averted compliments of our gal Faith," Xander explained.

"She killed Spike." Cordy glanced at Xander quickly. "Buffy's bringing her back. Maybe you can help her, Angel. She came to you the last time she had a breakdown."

"When will they be back?"

"A few days. Willow was hoping they could leave New Orleans this afternoon. They're anxious to get home." Giles rubbed his forehead tiredly. "I'll be relieved to finally get a good night's sleep."

"We'll stay until they get back." Angel headed for the kitchen to get blood.

"That's our Angel. Always doing the noble thing." Cordy sighed and turned her attention back to sipping her coffee.

Xander raised his eyebrows. "But you love him that way, right?"

"Of course." She tossed her ponytail over one shoulder carelessly. "That's what makes him Angel."

"But you don't love...love him...as in moment of happiness love, right? Cause not only is that big with the creepy, it's also all sorts of badness."

"And your type is?"

"I'll start with, I don't know, alive."

"Just asking." Xander raised his hands in a gesture meant to convey peaceful intentions. "Wondering. Cause you know, two people working together, feelings develop."

"Who have you been talking to?"

"No one."

"Who?"

"Fred might have mentioned something about you two having a thing. She didn't say what type of thing...just a thing."

"She is so dead when I get back to L.A." Cordy sighed again. "We had a thing. For a while. Didn't work. And we're good now, thank you."

"Let me guess. Clothing style incompatibility. You're a Spring line and he's down with the black, black, and oh, there's a dark gray."

"I slept with his son."

"That'll do it," Xander squeaked, eyes widening as he remembered their conversation on the porch. "That's what you meant when you said...oh. Well. On that happy, and oddly incestuous note, I'm going to head to the beach for an afternoon of fun in the sun."

"Don't get burned...too badly."

"Ahh, Cordy, didn't you know cared."

"I don't. I just don't want to listen to you whine about it later."

"You two haven't changed at all." Giles smiled, shaking his head indulgently. "I'm going to get some sleep. Don't wake me up unless the world is ending, again. Actually...not even then. I'd rather sleep through it."

"No problem, Giles. I'll man the phones with his Broodiness."

"I heard that," Angel retorted over a jar of blood as he returned.

"Damn vamp hearing."

* * *

"I'm guessing you two want some alone time." Willow smiled nervously, backing away from Buffy and Riley. "I'll just check on Dawn. And Faith. I'm sure they need me."

"Thanks, Will." Buffy smiled tightly and turned back to Riley.

Willow hurried across the lounge of the club to the booth where Dawn was sitting with Faith. She hadn't said a word since Riley and his team had brought her to Sanctuary. Not even Verek had managed to get a reaction from her. She just stared into space, occasionally looking down at her hands with a vague expression of horror on her face.

"Crazy, isn't it?" Dawn whispered, motioning to her sister. "After all this time, he just shows up here."

"I guess the Council has gone public about the existence of demons. In case the world ended and they couldn't deny it anymore." Willow took a seat next to Faith, trying not to make any sudden moves that might startle her. "Riley was part of the task force they sent to England, since he kinda already knew about demons anyway. They sent him back to track Spike down and kill him."

"Bet he loved getting those orders."

"He didn't seem unpleased with them, that's for sure."

"Probably mad that Faith beat him to it," Dawn huffed, glowering across the room.

"You okay, Dawnie? I know you cared about Spike and he was kinda a friend to you after Buffy died." Willow's eyes were suspiciously bright.

"Still hasn't sunk in that he won't be coming back." Her voice caught for a moment as it almost managed to register. She pushed it away. "I'm going to stay in denial land for a bit more, do the whole - he died for the greater good so let's celebrate his martyrdom - bullshit. Probably until we get into the car. Then I'll fall apart."

"Sounds like a plan."

"So the whole world knows about vampires and stuff?" Dawn changed the subject quickly before she could dwell on Spike's death. No. Not dead. Just not here. Out somewhere, safe from the sun and pointy wooden things. Just until she got into the car. Then she could break. She had to be strong for Faith and Buffy.

"The governments at least. And Riley said that the President wants to meet the Slayers."

"Can anyone say Initiative: The Sequel?"

"I hope not." Willow shuddered at the memory. "But I don't think Iverson would just hand the Slayers over to the military. They probably only came clean because they figured Buffy would need help fighting all the extra creepy crawlies that we've been seeing. Riley said his team has been fighting almost nonstop for days. The bad weather has helped, made the demons all sluggish and miserable. That and being fried by lightning tends to slow them down."

"Gives me the wiggins."

"I know. How are you feeling?"

"Right as rain." Dawn answered with more confidence than she felt. "I can't really remember all that much, lots of green, but that's not unusual for me. Being Key, comma The, and all. I wish I could remember it. I bet it was totally cool."

"At least you're all right. We were worried." Willow reached out to squeeze the girl's hand.

"I noticed." Dawn grinned wickedly and nodded to the empty glasses. "How many drinks did Buffy have?"

"Don't ask!" Willow laughed. "But it's safe to say, I had twice as many. We figured, what the hell, world's gonna end...might as well meet it with a vodka soaked haze."

"And I'm the supposed to be the irresponsible one." Dawn rolled her eyes. "I'm totally ready to go home though. No more road trips for a very long time. If we could fly back, I'd absolutely say yes."

"Verek's good with the portal hopping, maybe he can make one big enough to drive through."

"God, I hope so. Another day in a car with Buffy and I'll need the vodka." She was not looking forward to spending more time in the back seat of Willow's car. At least she wouldn't be shaking and bleeding this time around. "Have you talked to Giles?"

"As soon as Faith got here, I gave him a ring." Willow picked at a piece of lint on her shirt, watching as the exchange between Buffy and Riley got more animated. Buffy looked angry. "You should have heard the messages I left on Xander's machine."

"Short but heartfelt?"

"More like long and drunken ramblings in which I chewed him out for not being there so I could do a dramatic, sobbing goodbye in person." She shook her head with embarrassment. "He's never going to let me live it down."

"Here she comes." Dawn straightened in the booth, biting her lower lip nervously as Buffy approached them. "Hey, Buff. How's the boyfriend reunion?"

"You will not believe what Iverson told the President of the United States." Buffy fumed as she sat down, glaring at Riley's retreating back. "I have been given an executive order to breed."

Willow blinked with surprise. "What?"

"Apparently, the Slayer lines now end with me, Faith, and Cara. So they want us to get busy with the baby train." She shook her head with disbelief. "They've offered to pay for all pre-natal, fertility, and childcare costs. Can you believe them? I can't even get a boyfriend whose swimmers haven't been dead for more than a hundred years. How do they expect me to breed?"

Dawn tried to keep from laughing. It didn't work. Dissolving into giggles, she abandoned all hope, laughing until her sides ached and tears streamed down her face. Soon enough, Buffy's frown faded and she began to chuckle. Laughing too hard to breathe, she brushed at her eyes, trying to regain control of herself.

"Not funny." Buffy gasped between fits of giggles. "It's really not."

"I know." Willow hiccupped. "It's just...I don't know...so..." She gave up and laughed until she couldn't laugh anymore.

"Home then?" Buffy asked when she had finally calmed down.

"All packed and ready to go."

Buffy sobered as she turned to Faith, reaching out to touch her hand softly. "You're safe now. You're with friends. We'll take care of you this time. I promise."

Willow smiled sadly, pulling Faith with her as she got up. "I'll take her out to the car. Come on, Faith."

"Bags?" Buffy reached out to take Dawn's hand.

"Over there. Guess it's pack horse duty for us."

"Yep." She smiled at her younger sister. "Love you, Dawnie."

Dawn wrapped her arms around Buffy's waist. "Loves you more."

"Don't leave me again, ok?"

"Cross my heart."


	31. Reconstructing The Fables

**Part Three:** **Finding Heaven **

**Reconstructing the Fables** –

The world didn't end in a blaze of fire or the relentless creep of glacial ice. It simply disappeared in the blink of an eye to be replaced by something that looked and sounded like the world. But it wasn't the same. Anyone with more than five senses and two eyes, more than the limited human perception of sight and sound could feel it, see it. This new world was fresh, young, and as all newborn worlds, overflowing with power.

Verek watched the worn, weary, and slightly hung over group from Sunnydale depart hours before sunset. Once more alone, he sat among the ruins of his bookstore and breathed in the acrid scent of burnt books. Lost magic. Words of power and substance. How many species didn't realize the power of the word? How many relied on blood or sacrifice to wield their power? He wondered, as he absently scribbled dates and times in a small notebook, what kind of power this new world would choose. The word? The fist? The only type that he could rule out was Death Magic, which typically didn't rise to domination until the last days of a dying world when there was no other power left.

This new world had a touch of whimsy in its fashioning, as though a child had taken their hand to the fabric of reality and enthusiastically colored it into a refrigerator masterpiece. There was youth in each breath of wind and a new spring in the freshly washed earth. He could sense that the Ageless Ones had retreated to the Nexus; where they would remain, probably arguing over the details of the reconstruction, until they were needed once again to tip their hands and show that despite the illusion of objectivity, they were all up to their elbows in the chaos of everyday. What piqued his interest the most was the taint of humanity he saw in the reality around him. It infused every aspect; even the signatures of the convergence sites had shifted and he knew without doubt that the hands that had done the weaving had loved this world.

He pondered the possibilities as he examining the smudges of ash on his pale hands. Boundless curiosity had always been one of his more admirable traits, and he was more than a little interested in what had been the final seconds of the old world. He knew what had to have happened for this new world around him to be possible and knew the after effects. But he wished he could have seen the vampire's death. Perhaps then he could have helped Faith before she drove away, her dark eyes staring blankly through the window.

With a weary sigh, he began the preparations for one more portal. There were days he wished that he hadn't been blessed with the gift of knowing how to bend and shape energy barriers; after the first three hundred years it lost its appeal. He scratched a circle into the rubble, reciting the mystical address of his destination in little more than a whisper. It would be much easier if he could adapt the system to GPS. Maybe now that the world was young and malleable he would be able to integrate modern technology. Air shimmered; he sometimes imagined that it was waving hello rather than just giving off light as the molecules rapidly cascaded through changing energy states. Tucking his return ticket into his pocket and securing his notebook, he stepped through the glittering oval. Blazing fireworks surrounded him, sparking with joyous energy as it hurled him through time and space to his destination in the countryside of Devon, England.

Where he landed, dawn was just beginning her first advance over the lush landscape and the sky was still a mass of slate gray clouds piling haphazardly one on top of the other. Light shone through the coven's windows and he smiled, knowing they would be rising to greet the sun and celebrate. Fresh power was always exhilarating.

"Verek!" A voice broke through the early morning stillness. He turned to see one of the Priestesses walking briskly through the underbrush, waving cheerfully as she approached. "How many years has it been? Seven? Isn't this amazing? We've been up half the night like teenagers."

"It's quite a change. How are you doing, Mariann?"

"Lovely. Out for my morning constitutional."

"Restless?"

"Rejuvenated. Come inside and have some tea."

"An offer I'd never refuse." Verek followed after the witch, noticing the new bounce in her step and the way her normally straight hair was curling at the ends. "How is the coven doing?"

"Well, very well. We've become a not so silent voice in the New Watcher's Council. Things certainly have changed since I visited you in New Orleans. Do you still have that little bookstore?"

"In a manner of speaking." He winced as he thought of his ruined shop. There wasn't much that upset him but the useless destruction of books happened to be at the top of a very short list.

"The Head Watcher is supposed to stop in for a bit of a chat this morning," she commented as they entered the cozy building. Formally a mill, the coven had renovated the three stories of stone and wood into a comfortable meeting place and home. "Although I'm not sure he'll like the answers we have to give him at all. We've been beside ourselves as it is."

"How so?" he asked, taking the seat she waved him toward and settling in to wait for his tea.

"We're seeing a big change in the forces surrounding the Slayer. No details. Just something new." She hesitated for a moment. "There is one other thing that has been puzzling us. Perhaps you can shed some light on the subject. What happened to the vampire?"

"He is dead."

Mariann nodded solemnly. "We felt the world collapse just for a moment, and then it rebuilt around us. As though it had never ended. And now?" She took a deep breath. "I'm sure we must be mistaken but one of the seers, Natalie, swears that she can still feel him. His essence. That he is still in this world somehow."

"Why is that a mistake?" Verek asked carefully.

"Shouldn't the balance be disrupted if he was still alive? Or undead, as it were."

"Who says the balance is the same now as it was?" He watched as she considered his words. "Has his essence changed as well?"

"Now that you mention it." Mariann tapped the counter, ignoring the teapot as it began to hiss. "Natalie said he felt different. Almost human."

"Perhaps a change has occurred. Shanshu? As mentioned in the Aberjian scrolls."

She shook her head and moved to the stove. Hot water steamed as she poured it into two thick ceramic mugs. "Shanshu is much different. The human body is reanimated and the demon is cast out. His essence is still distinctly Spike."

"Will you tell the Council?"

"I'm not sure that is the right course of action. If it is possible that he has become human, which is what Natalie is trying to convince us of, then I feel bound to inform the Council." She measured out the tealeaves carefully, focusing on the actions of her hands. "But I can't begin to understand how it happened."

"Perhaps it was a reward."

"Perhaps. But for what? And how is that a reward? Take a vampire and give him back all the weaknesses of a human being? Vampires pride themselves in their immortality, you know that."

"And Spike was no different. He gloried in the strength of his demon, albeit quietly after he regained his soul."

"Then why take that away from him?"

"Perhaps the humanity itself was not the reward but what comes with it."

"Elaborate, my demon friend. You know more than you're saying." She smiled as she handed him one of the cups. "I know you have connections even if you don't take advantage of them."

"Consider it logically, what can humans achieve that vampires never can?"

"Disease?"

"The real curse of vampirism is not hiding in darkness or drinking blood. It's being trapped in the shadow of the living." Verek sipped his tea carefully. "True life is about achieving joy. How many vampires actually achieve happiness?"

Mariann raised one eyebrow. "I can think of one."

"He had a soul. Very different."

"They seem pretty happy to be killing and maiming to me."

"Granted. But Spike, the demon, the vampire, wanted to be part of this world. To belong. To have friends who would never wonder if he was looking at their necks the wrong way. No longer trapped in the darkness that separated him from those he cared for. As long as he remained a vampire, all of his dealings would be controlled by the fact that he wasn't one of them. He would have spent eternity watching everyone he loved die around him and know that even in the end, a part of them could never trust him. Could never truly love him."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Human beings, for all their strengths, cannot seem to see past certain differences. Skin color, social class, species. They cannot love what they cannot cease to fear."

"And his reward?"

"I don't believe he was made human, if that is what has happened, so that he could experience death or sickness. I believe he was made human so that he could be loved. A means to an end rather than an end unto itself." If he knew Chronos, it would be something along those lines. The Incarnation had a tendency to focus on the long-term results.

"And who would be behind this so called reward? Who has that kind of power?"

"Would you believe me if I told you that this is not the same reality to which you were bound just a day ago? That even the fundamental laws have been restructured?"

"That would explain the alterations in the Slayers." Mariann watched him thoughtfully for a moment. "And the power we've been feeling." She shook herself visibly. "Enough of serious conversation. Will you be here for Iverson's visit? He would love to meet you, I'm sure. Since you were actually there when all of this took place."

"What kind of man is he?"

"A good man. A little Machiavellian for my taste but he holds the Slayers above all else. It has been a long time since there has been a man more devoted to aiding the Chosen than Iverson."

"Good intentions pave the road to Hell."

"More true than you know." She turned away for a moment. "But we have hope. With only three Slayers remaining, there is an opportunity for a fresh start. To do it right this time."

"I could probably stay. It's still night in New Orleans." Verek checked his watch. "The cleanup crew isn't due until mid morning. I'm afraid they blew up my bookstore."

"That's awful! What are you going to do?"

Verek frowned grimly. "I'm going to find the idiot vampire responsible and introduce him to this fine new world. Preferably in several million small particles."

Mariann laughed. "I forget how protective you are of your books and I pity the poor creature who deserves your wrath."

"The fact that my race is peaceful does not mean we have no skill at warfare."

"May he be slowly rendered to dust. And let us know if there is anything we do to help with restoring your library."

"Thank you. I had hoped that you would say exactly that."

"Anything for a friend."

* * *

Telling the landlady was something widows did. Cleaning out closets and picking up laptops was something wives of fallen soldiers had to face. It wasn't something Faith had ever wanted to do and she'd cursed herself ever since Willow had driven away, promising to return in an hour. But it had to be done. Spike had built a life in his four years away from Sunnydale and he had been proud of it. He had friends in New Orleans who needed to know he was...she stopped herself, latching onto a doorframe as a wave of nausea sent her stomach into a spin. As long as she kept the images out of her mind she could keep food in her stomach, but the second she let them in, she would find herself on the side of the road with Buffy's soft hands smoothing her hair out of her face.

Embarrassing, yes. She was too miserable to be embarrassed. Part of her wondered why. She'd known him less than three months. There wasn't the long and sordid history that he had with Buffy or the purity of the connection Dawn had. Just a lot of pain and running and sex. Still, he had been the best friend she'd ever had. Sometimes it wasn't the amount of time that mattered, a little voice whispered in her head. Telling herself it shouldn't hurt wouldn't take the pain away and denial couldn't fill the emptiness.

She packed everything into the box she found in the bedroom closet of his apartment, smiling sadly at the fact that every time she ran away, she ended up without anything to wear. They hadn't taken much in their flight from Sunnydale. The box was only half full when she carefully wrapped the slender computer in a towel and nestled it into the clothing. Making sure all the lights were out and everything was back in its place, she locked the door behind her and headed toward Crazy Judy's. The Tupperware dish rattled lightly on top of the box. Once she found the manager's apartment, she set it down gently and picked up the plastic bowl, dumping the key to Spike's apartment into it as she rang the doorbell.

"Coming!" The muffled voice of the landlady called out through the door. After another moment, Faith heard the slide of dead bolt and the familiar smiling face appeared in the shadows. "Oh! It's you. How lovely. Is William back again?"

Faith opened her mouth and nothing came out. She hadn't actually said it aloud. Hadn't said it silently either. Swallowing painfully, she shook her head and physically forced the words out of her throat. "He's dead." Two words. Two syllables. A thousand stinging needles in her chest.

"Oh my." Judy stepped out of the apartment, eyes wide in surprise. "I'm so sorry, dear. I remember the day my Oscar died like it was yesterday. Ate his Raison Bran one morning just like always and set off to go bird watching. I've always wondered if he died because of a spotted Thrush or speckled Blue Bill."

"Huh?" Faith blinked, wondering if anything Crazy Judy said actually made sense to anyone.

"My husband, Oscar. He died five years ago. It was a lovely service." The landlady dabbed at her eyes. "Now he's lying in the ground moldering away with the worms. Eventually there will be nothing left but a pile of dust inside a casket."

"Dust," Faith repeated blankly.

"Yes. It's quite sad when you think about it."

"Sad."

"Are you all right, dear?" A warm hand settled on Faith's arm and she held out the Tupperware defensively.

"The key's in the bowl. I have to go." She almost dropped the Tupperware before Judy could take it from her hands.

Picking up the box, she headed back to the street where Willow would be returning, ignoring the calls from the woman behind her. Nothing left but a pile of dust. Don't turn around, don't look back. Never look back. Taking a seat on the curb, she wrapped her arms around the box and took deep, calming breaths. She just needed to get away from here and away from Sunnydale. It would be awhile before Guard Buffy and her Attack Dawn let Faith out of their sight for more than an hour. They were all worried and sympathetic. It made Faith cringe.

Dawn wanted to remember everything about Spike, to talk about the things he'd said or done over the years. Faith wanted to forget. Her memories were still too real, too raw and painful. But the Summers sisters were gung-ho about getting Faith to face her pain and get on with the grieving. She had to give them points for effort and they certainly knew a few things about grief. So she didn't smack them when she really wanted to or lash out at Willow, who kept glancing in the rearview mirror with sad, tear washed eyes. Willow knew how it felt to watch a lover die.

Rational thought kept her grounded, hugging the cardboard box fiercely and telling herself that they were trying to help her heal. The world had taken Spike away from her with the same cruelty that it had taken everything else, but she'd get by like she always did. Damaged, yes. Alone, always. There would still be a hundred million words she'd wanted to say to him that she'd never say. Didn't even have a grave to talk to when there was no one else who would just listen and not try to make her feel better.

A car engine roused her from her thoughts and she looked up to see Willow pull up to the curb. Loading the box into the backseat, she slid into the passenger side and clipped in the seatbelt.

"How'd it go?"

Faith stared out the car window, watching Sunnydale fly by. "Maybe you could help with his computer. I know he had people he emailed and shit. I had some classes in prison on computers but I'm no hacker."

"Sure. No problem," Willow answered too cheerfully. "I can be computer girl."

"Yeah. Everyone alive here in Sunnyhell?"

"A few bruises but all present and accounted for. Angel and Cordy wanted to say hi before they left for L.A."

"Nice of them."

"Well, you know Angel."

"Yeah. Always the nice guy."

"He cares about you."

Faith shrugged as they pulled into the driveway at Buffy's house. One more person to coddle her and tell her that eventually the pain would go away. At least she could probably count on some good old-fashioned insensitivity from Cordelia; it would be a refreshing change from everyone else walking on eggshells. She grabbed the box and shut the car door with her hip, marching across the grass toward the front porch. Might as well get it over with so that Brood Boy and Queen C could get on their merry way.

"We're back," Willow called as she shut the front door behind them. "Buffy was going to get her old room set up for you. Do you want me to take that up?"

Faith reluctantly let go of the box, feeling adrift without it to anchor her. She followed the soft voices coming from the kitchen. Buffy was probably making tea. She did that when she was tired or stressed.

Dawn's sad voice floated through the doorway. "At least she's talking now. She didn't say a word until we were halfway home."

"She just needs time." Angel's familiar rumble was calming.

"I don't know what to do for her." The sound of pouring water augmented Buffy's response and Faith smiled a little. Tea.

"There may not be anything you can do, Buffy. Just be there for her." Giles was still here then. Of course.

Faith took a deep breath and headed into the kitchen. She waved at the group weakly, suddenly self conscious and wishing for a place to hide. "Do I get tea? Or is this some sort of drinking club I don't belong to?"

"One steaming mug of herbal goodness coming right up." Buffy handed her a flowered mug. "There isn't any sugar or honey in it. Let me know if you need anything."

"I'm good. Thanks, B." Faith held the cup tightly, enjoying the soothing heat. "I'm just gonna sit outside. Drink my tea. Look at the stars."

"Want company?"

"Rather be alone." That way they could continue to talk about her without watching their words. Maybe they could even come up with a plan to make all the emptiness disappear. She settled onto the top step of the back porch and the quiet chatter resumed in the kitchen. Buffy was raging about the government and Riley. Life always threw the curve balls when you least expected them.

The backyard smelled of grass and lilacs. It was a beautiful night, brilliantly arrayed with stars and just enough of a warm breeze to keep the temperature in the pleasant range. Cinnamon apple tea was sweet against her tongue. She could remember when drinking tea was something old, stuffy people did. Not her. Not Faith. Wild and free, she'd never be caught dead doing something like that. Die young and leave a good-looking corpse, that's what slaying was about. She shook her head bemusedly. Six years was a long time, six years in prison was even longer. Gone was the rebellious teenager with enough issues to buy stock in a baggage company. She wasn't quite sure what was left in her now.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Angel stepped silently from the doorway, closing the door firmly behind him before sitting down beside her. "I know you wanted to be alone and I can leave if you want. But I wanted to be with you. For a while."

"No big, Angel." She shrugged, taking another sip of tea. "Long as you don't start crying too."

"Over Spike?" He sounded more than a little incredulous. "Sorry to say the only side of him that I ever saw wasn't exactly the best."

"Too bad. You probably would've liked him. With the soul and all."

"Really?"

Faith gave him a sideways glance and half of a smile. "Nah. You two still would've hated each other."

He leaned forward to peer out into the darkness, always watchful of what might be lurking in the shadows. "Thought about what you're going to do now?"

"Not really. Kill a few vampires. Life of the Chosen One and all. Or Chosen Three." She tipped her head to side and watched him for a moment. "Think we could pull off the Three Musketeers?"

"Haven't met number three yet."

"Don't know much about her. Tall."

"How are you doing?"

She raised her eyebrows before looking away. "You get whiplash from that subject change?"

"Couldn't wait any longer. But I promise not to ask if I can get you anything."

"Good. Hear that one more fucking time and I'm gonna scream."

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"You caught that, huh?"

"Your attempt to get out of it? Yeah." Angel stared down at his hands. "I'm sorry it had to be you, Faith."

"You ever kill anyone you loved, Angel?"

He hesitated for a second. "No. Not really. Darla doesn't count for half a dozen reasons. There was Cordelia. Long story."

"Not goin' anywhere."

"There was something evil inside her and in order to kill it...I had to kill her. I was going to." He shook his head sadly. "I remember raising the sword over my head, thinking about what would happen when it hit her neck. But I was too late to stop what was inside her."

"Didn't have to kill her then?"

"No. And I realized something, actually." Pensively, he leaned back to stare at the stars. "If I'd really loved her the way I thought I did, I wouldn't have been able to kill her. Not if I knew the real Cordy was still in there somewhere. I would have done anything to save her." Dark eyes turned toward her, watching her intently.

Faith stared into her mug, wishing the dark liquid would somehow give her the answers. "Oh."

"Love's a funny thing that way."

"Don't believe in love. Nobody ever loved me. Never loved anybody." Faith finished her cooling tea quickly. "Don't think it's as big a deal as people make it seem. Love doesn't make the world go round."

"But you couldn't kill him."

Faith turned slowly, seeing nothing but compassion in his handsome face. "How'd you know?" Her voice was quiet, almost lost in the breeze.

"Lucky guess."

"They don't know." She nodded toward the house. "Didn't want to tell them."

"Because you thought they'd be disappointed in you?"

"No. Just...just didn't want them to know. That he had to, he had to do it." She set the mug down and wrapped her arms around her knees. "Because I was too weak."

"You're not weak, Faith." His hand rested gently on her shoulder. "Love isn't weakness, it's strength."

"How many times do I have to tell you people that we weren't in love?"

"You would've done it if you didn't love him."

She opened her mouth to disagree and the words escaped without making any sound. Finally she smiled and laid her head against her arms. "What we had wasn't love, Angel. Maybe everyone calls it love because they don't have any other words, but it was more than that. It was just...everything."

* * *

The state of the Watcher's Council before the end of the world - and the world had ended according to the coven in Devon - had been the purest form of chaos Iverson had been unfortunate to witness. After the walls came back up, it got worse. Now they had a public relations nightmare as the world struggled to sweep the darkness back underneath the rug and the diplomats were busily mining all of the Council's best lies while creatively spinning their own. Global warming was responsible for the storms. No, that hurricane off the coast of California hadn't actually been a hurricane, everyone knew it was impossible due to water temperatures. Mostly, people began to clean up the wreckage and get on with their lives. For the Head Watcher himself, black plastic and particleboard weren't as picturesque as the view of London he used to see through his office window, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Iverson was grateful he hadn't been in his office when the malicious chunk of burning rock had crashed through the window and set his desk on fire. Bloody meteorites. Bloody vampire. Bloody everything and the little old lady down on the corner too.

Relief had barely settled over the Headquarters when Weatherby started crowing that there hadn't really been any danger at all and that Iverson had gotten them worked up and exposed over nothing. In one of his rants, he had been particularly incensed that the American military now had knowledge of the Slayers and Iverson had been forced to point out the ugly truth. They had always known. Where did Weatherby think the information on demon anatomy came from? Where most of the information they had taught the potential Slayers and the conditioning techniques they had used came from? The man had turned ashen and left the office stuttering.

Another part of Samuel Elliot's legacy was a deal with the devil wearing red, white, and blue. No one had liked the decision but they hadn't seen a better way to replenish the resources lost in the explosion. And there had been the opportunity to actually train Slayers and possibly give them an edge. At least, that was what Iverson had told himself when he had cast his vote to support the deal. For the most part, the U.S. government had been content to share and watch, without intervention or hindering the Council's work. Now that only three Slayers remained, the winds of change were blowing and the hulking superpower had turned its eagle eyes toward the Council with renewed interest.

The future that Iverson hadn't dared hope for was now barreling down at them with a vengeance and he was scrambling to find his feet again. Which was why he'd sent the Watcher's Council off on an extended retreat with their cell phones glued to their ears while he was headed into the heart of Devon for some excellent tea and good advice. Regardless of the information he received, his next stop would be Washington D.C. in an attempt to head off the inevitable clash between military brass and at least one very brassed off Slayer. He needed support and not just Buffy's. He needed Faith's and Cara's as well for the deal to work. Buffy would be the easiest to convince because she already knew that the Slayers had the power. They were the coveted commodities. If she would just trust him enough to hear him out, it could possibly work out for all parties concerned.

Bumping over a hole in the road, he maneuvered the rental car into the rocky drive next to the barn and climbed out of the small vehicle. The wind had picked up and despite the sun shining overhead, it was beginning to turn chilly. He knocked loudly on the old mill and hoped there was someone to hear his pounding. To aid their meditation, Mariann had sound proofed the second floor and he could stand on the doorstep banging against the heavy oak until the world ended again before they would hear him.

"Mr. Iverson! What a pleasure." A young woman beamed as she opened the door. "Of course, everything is a pleasure this fine morning."

"Yes. I'm sure it is." Her obvious excitement was a marked change from the usual serenity of the coven and he stepped across the threshold with a bit of apprehension.

"Mariann is entertaining a guest in the sitting room but asked me to send you right in."

"Thank you." Iverson shrugged off his jacket and found his way through the darkened hallway.

His skin was crawling more than normally, reminding him of why he had never really liked magic. It had its own rules and ideas about the way things ought to be. The only thing about magic that was predictable was the fact that it always came back to bite you in the ass. That had been one of the reasons he had voted for the military's method of conditioning rather than a mystical one. Soft light poured through the doorway as he entered the sitting room. Mariann was an older woman and best described by the word generous. Hair, curves, even her personality was embodied in that single word. The man beside her was small with pale hands and avian eyes.

"Perfect timing, Clair." Mariann held out a saucer and cup, motioning him to take a seat.

"I won't beat around the bush." Iverson nodded his thanks as he took his tea and retreated to one of the cushioned sofas. "Here for the state of the world report and then I'm off to America."

"Well, as you can see, the world is still here."

"Yes. And the vampire?"

She hesitated, glancing at the man beside her. "We aren't sure."

"Not sure?" Iverson frowned. That was not the answer he had expected.

"This world isn't quite the same as it was before."

"It came back wrong?"

"Not wrong. Just different." She handed him a tray of biscuits.

"How is this important?"

"We don't know yet. We've sensed changes in the forces that surround the Slayers, nothing threatening. And one of our group believes that Spike is still here, in this world."

Iverson frowned some more and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I keep asking you questions that you can't answer. What can you tell me?"

"That this new world is more stable than the old one. It will take a great deal more than one vampire to tip the scales again." She settled back into her chair. "Forgive me, this is Verek. An old friend of mine, he runs a bookstore in New Orleans. Or ran, I suppose."

"Pleased to meet you." Iverson held out a hand.

Verek shook his hand quickly. "I had the opportunity to meet both Spike and Faith before the end."

"Really? I do wish I could have met him. What was he like?"

"Quite fascinating, actually. Very complex. I'm sure it had something to do with the soul and demon coexisting in the same body. Two fundamentally different personalities gelling together to become a single whole. The struggle for identity."

"I was under the impression that only one could be dominant at a time."

"That would be true if the demon had fought against the soul the way Angelus fights against Angel."

"You're saying it wasn't that way?" Iverson studied Verek carefully. He wasn't used to people knowing so much about the supernatural world, although if he was a friend of Mariann's there was little doubt that he knew of it.

"Not at all. As I said, quite fascinating."

"You said you also met Faith. What were your impressions of her?"

Verek's eyes softened for a moment. "When Spike first brought her to my store, she was covered in blood and nearly dead, I couldn't believe she had survived her ordeal. Have you seen her?"

"No. I'm afraid not." He knew Faith had been captured but no details had been available.

"I don't believe there was an inch of her body that wasn't covered with bruises, cuts, or burns. She was beaten, whipped, and her face had been carved like a Halloween pumpkin. Two days later, still barely able to walk, her only concern was getting back to Sunnydale to protect those she considered friends. She may have made mistakes in her past but her heart is in the right place."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you don't know her. None of you ever did." Verek smile had turned cold.

"Duly noted." Iverson set his tea down carefully. "Any idea when you might have a better idea about what changes we can expect?"

Mariann shook her head. "It is too soon to say. We will keep in close contact with the Council of course."

"It's all I can ask for." He took a deep breath. "Off the official record. The United States has expressed interest in regenerating the Slayer lines and I have horrible visions of doped up Slayers in medical labs with babies in test tubes. I don't trust them, they don't trust me. How paranoid should I be?"

"Goodness Clair, you don't need a seer to tell you they'll stab you in the back if you turn around."

* * *

Tepid water splashed against his skin, dripping down his wrists and forearms. Gripping the edges of the sink firmly, he stared up at the bathroom mirror into bright blue eyes. A single drop hung precariously from his chin for a moment before plummeting to the porcelain basin beneath him and for just a second, he was convinced that it wasn't his face staring out of the mirror. The metal band of his watch clicked softly against the sink as he reached down for a towel. Fingers caught the edge of the terry cloth, pulling it up to his face and rubbing it roughly against his skin.

_You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine._

Pulling the towel away quickly, he frowned into the mirror. Maybe he was losing his mind. Hearing voices couldn't possibly be normal. But there was something familiar about the voice that he couldn't place, couldn't understand. Like the flashes in his dreams that stuck with him long after he awoke, heart racing and trembling; it felt so real. And the world around him didn't feel as real any more. As though something was missing.

"Working too hard, mate." He told the face in the mirror, combing his fingers through thick brown curls. Shaking off the uneasiness creeping up his spine, he tossed the towel back over the rail and padded barefoot back into the bedroom.

The answering machine was announcing that he'd missed his partner's wake up call. How long had he been it out of it, staring into the bathroom mirror as though it held all the answers in the universe? Forty-two. A smile turned the corners of his lips up as he thought about the tattered paperback Gage Matthews always carried with him as a good luck charm. And a towel. He didn't ask for details, just rolled blue eyes skyward and shook his head. They were the odd couple of Boston law enforcement, not quite Abbot and Costello, not quite Laurel and Hardy. More like George and Gracie. The jury was still out on which one of them was Gracie.

Their friendship started their first day in training when they'd managed fill out all the wrong forms, knock over a coffee maker, and crash one of the patrol cars into a concrete barrier. They bonded over the fact that both of their names were subject of ridicule among the other officers. New Age, hippie, girly names all twisted around backwards, with their proper, masculine names trailing at the end. Gage Matthews, Davis Williams. Should be the other way around, the guys said with a slap on the back and friendly grin. None of them actually called him by his given name. As a congratulation present for passing the exams to become a detective, they'd given him a dog collar studded with silver spikes and the words Marrett's Attack Dog written on the inside. The name Spike stuck. Gage was the proud recipient of a terrycloth hand towel that proudly proclaimed So Long And Thanks For All The Fish. It had been five long years in the making and the best day of their lives. Tapping the machine, he headed to the closet and leisurely began to dress.

"Spike! Hey man, this is your six a.m. wake up call. Be there in an hour, I'll bring the Starbucks." The machine beeped as the message ended.

Six in the morning wasn't Spike's best time of day. Ungodly hour to get up and start hunting down evil. Most evil happened at night when it could slink and hide in the shadows, masked from all that was good and holy. His mother, God rest her soul, had fretted about her son following in her late husband's footsteps, picking up a badge and gun. She never really understood that while Thomas Williams had patrolled the streets to make them a safer place for his family, her son did it because he enjoyed it. It wasn't something he talked about or mentioned to the police psychiatrist either. Gage loved putting criminals behind bars. Spike loved the chase, the hunt, and the occasional fight when nothing but fists or bullets could solve the problem. He wasn't crazy or a sociopath; he just enjoyed the release from a bit of old-fashioned violence. Ended up in homicide because he had a knack for getting inside the killer's head and making the connections.

Thoughts of his mother brought a smile to his face and another memory surfaced of her reminding him to put on sunscreen so he wouldn't burn or freckle. Of course he'd been a headstrong child and had ignored her completely, burning to a crisp at every possible opportunity and ending up stuck in a bathrobe for two agonizing days afterward. Still, his addiction to the sun remained undiminished.

Grabbing a carton of leftover Chinese from the refrigerator, he headed into his living room. It had become the Inner Sanctum for the latest case they were working on. Even on what looked to be a lazy Sunday, they were getting together outside the office to go over the details again and again until something caught their eye. Or at least until being inside drove Spike stir crazy and he had to get out. The past weeks had been pure hell for him, kept inside or soaked to the bone. At least the panic about the rising sea levels had begun to recede with the rain. _Right as rain._ He frowned, where had that come from? Right as rain? Shaking off the vague feeling of deja vu, he settled down onto the couch and flipped on the TV to catch the early news broadcast. For the rest of the day, he wasn't going to worry about strange dreams or voices. They had to be dialogue from a movie or television show he'd seen, buried in his subconscious and triggered by daily events. It was the only logical, reasonable explanation.

Slow news day. He traded the idle banter of the anchors for the radio, searching the bands for something to listen to. None of his CDs were particularly appealing for some reason and he was surprised to finally settle on a punk rock station. Maybe he was feeling nostalgic for his college days of distortion guitar, booze, and sorority girls. Except that he'd never been part of the intense party crowd. Every now and then had been good enough to soothe the craving for wild and crazy; he'd preferred to work off tension in the gym or on the soccer field. He'd never been a bookworm either. Grades were good and he picked up a taste for classic literature along the way, but reading away a sunny afternoon wasn't something he fancied. Loved the feel of the sun on his face too much for that.

"Must be one of those days," he commented to the empty apartment. Nostalgia kick. Maybe that meant he was ready for a change. His partner was trying to persuade him to look into something more permanent than a two bedroom flat on the third floor of Grove Terrace. Time to think about the future, he said. Gage had just bought a small starter home, determined to build a nest for himself and maybe even a future Mrs. Matthews.

Another hurdle between them and the rest of the team was that most of them had families waiting at home. Spike and Gage were still blissfully single. Gage managed to keep hoping that Miss Right would walk into the station one day needing a knight in shining armor to carry her away on a white horse. Spike, on the other hand, hadn't found anyone who held his interest for more than dinner and a movie. He knew he had issues with commitment, what rational human being didn't? Casual sex every now and then to take the edge off, but he kept feeling that something was missing. That he just hadn't found her. Whoever she was. All the women he'd known lacked fire, intensity. He frowned, crossing the room to open the blinds and let in the pale morning light. A degree in psychology wasn't really the best thing to have now that he was freaking himself out. At least he'd be able to diagnose himself before they locked him away in a padded cell.

The sound of his front door opening had him reaching for his gun before he remembered that Gage had a key to the apartment. They had a standing agreement that doors were always open for each other.

Gage grinned as he rounded the corner and set two grande cups of coffee on the table. "I can feel the tension from here. You spacing out or something today?"

"Weird dreams." Spike returned to his seat, turning his attention to the stack of manila folders waiting on the edge of the coffee table.

"Any naked women?" Gage had an easygoing temperament to match his sandy hair and freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was handsome in a clean cut, boyish sort of way, exuding a natural charm that more often than not landed him in hot water. Beneath the humor and playfulness, he had become the rock that kept Spike earthbound and focused on the real world.

"Blood and violence mostly. Vampires." Spike grinned across the table as he began spreading out photographs and notes.

"You've gotta stop watching those horror movies. They'll rot your brain." Gage frowned at the radio. "Since when do you listen to the Sex Pistols?"

Spike flipped through one of the legal pads, trying to find the most recent entry. "Don't know what it is, just flipping through the stations."

"No worries. Everyone has skeletons in their closet. Never would have pegged you as a Sid and Nancy type, but to each his own."

"Do you?" Spike stopped and shook his head as he changed his mind. "Never mind, stupid question."

"Come on, do I what?"

"Believe in reincarnation. Past lives and that shit."

"Anything's possible. Be cool if I had been Roman gladiator or a knight, wouldn't it?"

"What if you were some type of criminal?" Spike glanced up to check his partner's expression. He didn't want to let Gage know he was on edge. "Like Jack the Ripper or Hitler."

"This some sort of psych exercise? Cause you know I hate it when you do that." Gage eyed him thoughtfully. "You're sure you're all right?"

"Fine. Just wigged out by the dreams is all."

"Wigged out? You sound like my nephew and he's twelve."

"Fuck you, Gage." Spike grinned as he tossed the notebook to his partner. "I say we finish this today."

"You're on."

They traded barbs and challenges back and forth as they organized and sorted through the evidence. Photographs of the crime scene, autopsy reports, notes of the interviews they had done. It seemed simple enough. A young woman found shot in her car outside a convenience store; caucasian, five feet six inches, brunette. According to identification found in her wallet, her name was Caroline Milner, age 20; Boston College ID card, a couple credit cards, and some cash. He stared down at the photograph of her driver's license. She looked tired. He remembered his college days as a blur of books and sleep deprivation, trying to learn and retain everything deemed necessary for the hoops he was jumping. The only thing that kept him going was the light at the end of the academic tunnel and the look of pride in his mother's eyes when she talked about her son.

Cause of death was a bullet through her left temple from a maximum distance of fifteen feet away, small caliber handgun. The clerk in the store reported that he had heard shouting, possibly an argument, and then a gunshot. Interviews turned up a roommate who was surprisingly callous about her friend's death and an ex-boyfriend with a restraining order. It should have been simple. Except that everyone seemed to have an alibi and the ex-boyfriend didn't believe in guns. They couldn't seem to get through the wall of lies surrounding the dead girl's life. Wind and rain had washed away any evidence that might have been left behind except for the body.

_It's ripe and ready, my darling, waiting for us to devour its fruit. _

Putting down the photographs so that Gage couldn't see his hands shaking; he turned to the window and tried to push the voice out of his head. Concentrate. They had a case to solve, bad guy to catch. Heat from the sunlight warmed his skin, comforting and calming. Summer was gearing up for a full out attack of heat and humidity. Especially after the recent storms, it would be thick as butter and twice as hard to deal with. Couple days and his hair would go from curl to frizz. He'd better leave himself a memo, pick up hair gel. Just get to work and everything would go back to normal. Nice, normal world again.

"Spike? Hey, Davis?" Gage's voice was concerned as he snapped his fingers in front of Spike's face.

"Sorry. Daydreaming I guess."

"Been doing a lot of that?"

Spike began straightening a stack of papers absently. "I'm fine."

"Wasn't gonna ask."

"Yes, you were."

"Fine. But I was gonna ask what was on your mind first."

"Just feeling a little out of it. Probably bad Chinese from last night." He motioned to the empty carton that had served as breakfast.

"Right." Gage's skeptical look screamed that he wasn't buying what Spike was trying to sell.

They'd been through a lot in the last five years. Partner changes, shift changes, but they'd always ended up together because they were a damn good team. Part of that was the ability to read each other so well. Gage would know something was off as sure as he knew that Spike wouldn't come clean until he was good and ready. But it didn't keep the man from bugging the hell out of him in the meantime.

"Is it a girl?"

"What?"

"The reason you're George Jetson this morning? Is it of the skirt variety?"

"No. Maybe that's the problem. Complete lack of distractions in the form of women." It had been awhile since he'd gotten laid.

"Date with Liz didn't pan out then."

"Nice girl. Just not what I'm looking for," Spike answered noncommittally. She'd seemed like a good person, compassionate, interested. Boring as hell.

"What are you looking for?"

"I don't know."

"Then how are you gonna find it?"

"I'll know it when I see it, alright?" Spike checked his watch. Maybe it was time to get outside; take a walk and get some air.

"I don't think there's a woman on the east coast who has what you want. Maybe you should lower your standards a little." Gage noted his restlessness and stood up, heading for the doorway. "I don't even know what your standards are but they've gotta be too high or something."

"What kind of life does a cop's wife have anyway?" Spike shook his head as he followed his partner out of the apartment, changing the subject to something less personal. "You know the divorce rate on the floor. We've seen it fall apart for half the guys we work with. Why even sign up for that gig?"

"Man wasn't meant to be alone."

"We'll be alone until we die, my friend." Spike patted his partner's shoulder. "Just one lonely existence after another until you die and turn to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Gage rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, food for worms and carpe diem. I saw that movie."

Conversation faded out as they finished the last flight of stairs, leaving the air-conditioned building behind. Sunlight poured over Spike's shoulders like syrup, thick and hot. He stretched his neck and shoulders, turning right on the sidewalk to begin their circuitous route of the neighborhood. Never could stay in one place very long, a desk job would have been sheer hell for him. The amount of paperwork he had to do now was nearly at his breaking point and if Gage hadn't been there to keep him on task, he'd never get any of it done. It had been worse since the storms ended. He felt as though he hadn't seen the sun for a hundred years. And there was an itching at the back of his skull. The nagging feeling that he was missing something important. Something right in front of his face.

_The King of Cups expects a picnic. But this is not his birthday._

What? He knew that voice but not the words, not what they meant or where they came from. A feeling of amusement, of revelry and excitement. Of power. But nothing concrete, no face or time stamp to tell him who and where he'd heard the words. King of Cups. Wasn't that a tarot card? He stared blankly at the street, realizing that Gage was already halfway across the road. He hurried after his partner. It had to be stress. His mind's way of telling him that he needed to chill out, take time to cool off and recharge the batteries. He hadn't taken a vacation in five years because he loved his job, loved what he did and the danger it promised.

Frowning, he replayed that thought several times. Adrenaline junkie? Not really. And he never took risks that put others in danger or had suicide odds. He just needed a good rough and tumble every now and then. A spot of violence. What the hell was a spot? He clenched his fists tightly at his sides. "I'm losing my fucking mind."

He managed to pull himself together by the time he caught up to Gage. Talking was kept to a minimum. One word, a few syllables, nothing that would give away his agitation at waking up with a head full of voices that creeped him out more than any horror movie ever had. He didn't scare easily, never had. But this? He'd never thought to ask his parents if there was a history of mental illness in the family. The part of him that always expected the worst was already counting the days before everything he had worked so hard for, had fought for, was stripped from him as he wandered away into Wonderland.

"Fucking Christ, Davis." Gage's voice shattered his train of thought and he blinked as he realized that he had almost stepped into the path of an oncoming car. The hand on his arm had been the only thing holding him back. "Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on with you or do I have to beat it out of you? Don't think I won't."

Spike tried to brush him off. "Gage, it's nothing. Really."

"You were almost road kill, man. That's nothing? If you really can't tell me then explain to me why I'm your partner." Soft brown eyes watched him, a little bit angry, a little bit hurt. "How can I trust you to have my back? You're off your game and I need to know why."

"I don't know." Spike pressed the heels of his palms against his temples. "Maybe I'm losing it."

"Losing what?"

"My goddamn mind. I keep hearing this voice." He shook his head as though it would rip the words out and dash them into pieces. "A woman's voice. It's so clear. But I don't understand what she's saying and I don't remember. I just don't remember. And I keep saying, thinking, these things. Shit that I know I don't normally say."

"Do you feel okay? Physically?"

"Never better. A little edgy, maybe." Spike pulled away from his partner's grip and headed back to his apartment.

"Maybe you should talk to Dr. Coleman."

"And have her put me under a microscope and pull my badge? No fucking way."

He reached out, taking hold of Spike's arm again. "Look, man. It's your business and you know I'm behind you a hundred percent. Just promise me you won't squirrel this away into the Davis Williams forbidden catacombs or wherever you store the rest of the issues."

Spike raked one hand through his hair and took a deep breath. "Let's just get back to work. All right?"

"Sure, man. It's cool."

Spike nodded mutely. Telling Gage was the right thing. If he wasn't in top form, he was putting them both in harm's way. If he was rattled and distracted, his partner needed to know. Before his distraction got one of them killed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a group of kids playing ball in one of the apartment courtyards. Laughing, shouting, they were completely oblivious to the darkness in the world around them. The world that they would inherit. He was looking at the next generation of sports stars, actors and actresses, politicians, cops. It had all seemed like a grand adventure, growing up and finding a place in the world. When you grew up, you knew how the world worked. You knew everything and you didn't hear voices. He shuddered a little. One of the players tossed the ball to his friend. Dirt smudged hands missed it by a few inches and the ball collided with the girl behind them, bouncing off her shoulder.

"Gage." Spike frowned as the girl began cussing the two boys up and down. Older sister probably.

"What if Caroline wasn't the target?"

"You mean the shooter thought she was someone else?"

"No. I mean, what if she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"


	32. Contact

**Contact**

Wind rushed past, dragging careless fingers through Cordelia's hair and whipping long strands of it around like kite tails. She'd stopped caring about twenty miles outside of Sunnydale, unwrapped the scarf around her hair and tugged it out of the tight ponytail. Long was better. Heavier, warmer, and generally more of a pain in her nicely shaped ass, but it was still better. There was nothing like the wind in your hair, she'd told Angel once and even though he hadn't said anything, she knew he agreed. Why else would a vampire own a convertible? And she'd be glad to be back in her own bed, her own office, her own city. Sunnydale was the past and Cordelia Chase didn't dwell on the past, not anymore.

Her traveling companion was silent and brooding. That wasn't exactly unusual and over the years she had become finely attuned to the many different types of Angels brooding. There was brooding because he'd done something wrong, because he thought he'd done something wrong, because he didn't know if he'd done something wrong but was fretting about it anyway. Brooding because evil was coming, because evil was here, or it wasn't coming or it wasn't on time. Or because he was afraid of being too happy or not happy enough. Because he was remembering, because he was forgetting. Sometimes he even brooded just to brood. She could write a book about the million and one ways that Angel, Souled Wonder Vamp, brooded. This type of brooding was rare; it was Conflicted in A Good Way Brooding and meant that he stared straight ahead without really seeing, which was dangerous because he was the one driving, and held his left hand in a particular position. Arm resting on the car door, two fingers on top, two trailing down the outside and his thumb tapping absently on the interior. He was slouched a little to the left, which could have meant Tired and Disheartened Brooding, but the occasional sigh was dead give-away.

She'd always wondered why some vampires breathed and some didn't. It wasn't like they couldn't, they just didn't need air to survive. Maybe they got out of the habit as they got older and the younger ones still thought they needed to. Speaking required breath, their vocal cords were still bound by rules of human biology, and a lot of them smoked. Angel was the type to only breathe when his mind was a thousand miles and several hundred years away so the fact that she could actually watch the rise and fall of his shoulders every ten miles meant that he'd gone sightseeing through the past.

"Want to let me in on that brood?" Cordelia leaned against her car door, drumming her fingers lightly in imitation. "Cause I'd like to get back in one piece and you're not exactly Mr. Driver Safety when you're like this. Especially with the sun coming up in an hour."

Angel looked over at her, as though remembering for the first time that he wasn't alone in the car. "Have I broken any laws?"

"Crossed the double yellow line three times since the last mile marker."

"I have not," he protested, but his brow furrowed as he glanced toward her. "I have?"

"Like I said. Out with it."

"Its nothing."

"Buffy?"

"No."

"Faith?"

Angel sighed. "It's not anything like that."

"Again with the sighing. You know you only do what when you have something big and weighty on your shoulders. Do us both a favor and forget the Atlas routine, cause frankly, I don't buy it and I wouldn't be impressed even if I did."

He glanced around for some way to avoid the subject before sighing again, dejectedly. "It's Spike."

"Spike." Cordy repeated with a frown, not expecting that one at all. She didn't have any emotional attachment to Spike. Other than a good deal of fear, she never had. So he'd saved the world by holding still long enough for Faith to skewer him, good for him. "Care to explain that one?"

"Cordy."

"Come on, it's Spike. Of course I'm going to wonder if you've lost your mind. Cuddly, fuzzy feelings toward Spike? That's just wrong."

"I didn't say I had...feelings."

"No fuzzy feelings at all?"

"Well, there was one thing...he wrote these poems."

"Poems? Spike? No way am I going to believe you about that."

"It's completely true!"

She didn't think a few sappy poems were worth an entire brooding session. "You two didn't get along, you were never close, and you really didn't like each other even a teeny bit. Ever."

"They took away his soul and he still did it." There was a note of awe in his voice.

"Bring out the Angel mind map cause I'm gonna need it. Let's try that sentence again and connect the dots this time."

"They took away his soul and it didn't matter. He killed himself anyway. To save the world."

"I thought Faith killed him."

He shook his head, the hint of a smile playing over his lips. "She didn't. She couldn't."

She finally realized what he meant. Struggling to rearrange what she thought she knew into a different picture, she realized that it opened up all new possibilities for brooding potential. "Does it bother you that Buffy killed you and Faith didn't kill Spike? Not that you actually died but you know what I mean."

"Maybe. A little."

"But that isn't it?"

"Would Angelus have done it?"

"No way," Cordelia laughed. "He would have watched the world smash into little tiny pieces and probably roasted marshmallows over the ashes. You even have to ask?"

"That's part of it. Spike was able to change. He got his soul back of his own free will." Angel shifted in the car seat, putting both hands on the wheel firmly as he changed lanes. "And then he died to save the world. Spike. The Slayer of Slayers saved the world. William the Bloody was a Champion."

"Now I see where your head would explode. If you look at it like that." She'd been trying to wrap any sort of logic at all around the last few weeks and kept coming up confused.

"Every other vampire I've sired, or sired their sire, has come back to haunt me. I spent decades creating monsters to kill and destroy."

"And you blame yourself for the people they killed. We've covered this ground before."

"And now, one of the monsters that I created sacrificed himself to save the world." Angel smiled at her, visibly relaxing."I'm proud. Proud of the fact that I had a part in what made him. Not that it makes up for the others, but it's something."

Cordelia watched him silently, all indications of brooding were gone and he had returned to the relaxed, easy going Angel she had known for the last few years. She'd expected maybe some twisted vampire sadness because Spike had been a sort of relation, she wasn't too sure how the whole vampire families really worked. Or even some lingering anger over the Gem of Amara incident. Pride? No, that had been the last thing she would have guessed. "Should you feel proud?"

He shook his head. "Probably not. Maybe it doesn't balance out the people he killed and the horrible things he did. But that doesn't matter change the way I feel."

Reaching out to touch his shoulder, she smiled when he turned to look at her. "About time you figured that out."

* * *

The crypt felt emptier than it ever had now that he was never going to be coming back. Light swept across the floor as Buffy shifted the flashlight in her hand and started down the ladder. It was time for the Spike Shrine to relocate to somewhere less dangerous, somewhere that wasn't hidden away as though they were ashamed of it. She collected the box and the candles, smiling sadly at the pictures inside. The past was a spiders web and the slightest touch sent tremors through the whole thing. If she hadn't beaten him up in that alleyway, if he hadn't gotten drunk and slept with Anya, if he hadn't left. But there was no way to know that it would have been worse in that alternate reality, like Cordelia's experience with an all-vamp Sunnydale. Wishes were better left unspoken in her world.

With a sigh, Buffy started back up the ladder. It was strange that no one had ever moved into the crypt after Clem found his own place; the lingering smell of scorched earth probably kept anything from settling in. Maybe the baddies figured that if she'd blown it up once, she'd do it again and stayed away because they valued their lives. She thought briefly about putting up an _Available_ sign on the door as she closed it tightly behind her. That or just tearing it down so it didn't stand as a testament to the darkest year of their lives.

She took her time walking home. Here, in the darkness and the night that had been her element since she'd killed her first vampire and watched her childhood slip away; here, she was the Slayer. She could be objective because she had to be to survive. The best thing about the state of Here, the strange place between home and the rest of the world, was that she didn't have to hide. Didn't have to put up a brave front and swallow everything down until her throat ached with the need to cry or scream. Here, it was her pain. Not Dawn's, not Faith's. She didn't have to feel guilty for hurting. Guilty because Faith was probably hurting more or because her sister was hurting and she needed to be a shoulder for Dawn to cry on. Didn't have to worry that she was being selfish if she reminded them that she had feelings too.

No one Here, in the darkness, would blame her if she stopped, sat down at the edge of the cemetery, and cried. There were a hundred thousand memories parading around her: dancing, fighting, laughing. A taunt here, a joke there; the times he'd saved her life or pissed her off or just been there, skulking in the shadows with a cigarette between his lips and a gleam in his eyes. He'd chained her to the wall of his crypt to tell her he loved her and years later it was still one of her funniest stories. If Slayers had reunions in heaven, she'd definitely have tales to tell. He'd fought at her side, had trailed behind her shouting the endless stream of words that always seemed to be falling from his mouth. Watching Passions, watching after Dawn. Constant, immovable, he'd always been there.

_I know that I'm a monster. But you treat me like a man._

She wasn't quite sure why that particular memory seemed so vivid; most of that night was all wrapped up in the big blur of dying, which tended to take precedence on the Memory Priority List. Now it came back to her as real as the demons she killed night after night. Standing on the steps, looking down at him and seeing his honesty, his sincerity, knowing it was the truth because she could tell he didn't expect to survive the night. In a way, he'd won her in that single moment, at least a little part of her. Not enough of her to give him the love he wanted. It was ironic, she realized, that it was the same reason Riley had left her.

Beyond the pain and the strange sense of loss, she was determined to make sure Faith had an easier time than she did. No running off to L.A. in a stupor of heartache, no shutting out friends and family because it hurt too much to be around people who loved you, but not the one who loved you most. Maybe she and Faith would never get along, never be a wink and a smile, but a working relationship had to be possible. Maybe it wasn't as important as saving the world or killing the next Big Bad. But there would always be evil; there would only be one Faith and one chance for Buffy to mend the rift between them. She had all the same weaknesses and the same faults. Super strength didn't make her less of a human being, less fallible or prone to mistakes. In the end it wasn't about being better or worse than anyone else. She just had to be good enough. For her friends, for her family, for herself.

Watching Dawn slowly fall apart had made her realize with new intensity what she had always known deep inside. She'd always seen each day as one more day she could die but she'd never realized that each day was one more day that Dawn could die. That Giles or Xander or Willow could die. Even immortality was no guarantee of one more day. Life was terribly short and she'd spent enough of it in the darkness.

It was time to get back into the light.

* * *

Cara stared out over the city with her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. It looked so quiet, so peaceful. From the rooftop of Angel Investigations, it was a glittering world of glamour and excess where all that mattered was fashion, money, and a good time. At least, that's what the magazine down on the counter said. She frowned as she tried to organize the contents of the article into her definition of Los Angeles. City of Angels, City of Angel. The city where she was doing a good job of fucking up. Blinking, she was a little startled, realizing that she had just cursed.

She tried the word aloud. "Fucking."

Odd. It was an odd word and people seemed to bandy it about as though it meant everything and nothing. Was it a noun? A verb? Where did it fit into a sentence properly?

"Bitch."

Another word. Faith was a bitch, but somehow it was a compliment. Not that it mattered; nothing else made sense, why should swearing be any different? She should probably give up before she used the words badly and made a fool of herself. Funny how she'd never worried about humiliation before coming to Los Angeles. Never doubted that she could please, not like she did now. Never doubted herself as a Slayer before she'd gone to Sunnydale. Before she'd heard them talking about her and about how she was broken.

The demon, Lorne, had done what they called a _reading_, now that the dimensional vibrations were no longer mucking up the mojo. Direct quote. What did he mean by mojo? Was that another slang term? She'd sung a song that Fred taught her, something about rowing boats down a stream that didn't make sense either. But she'd sung it because Wesley had asked her to and Lorne had turned a little greener around the edges, vanishing in search of alcohol while he muttered about futility and constitutions. Or something. She hadn't been sure what to make of the entire experience.

Waiting patiently on the couch, she'd kept still and quiet, hoping that someone would explain to her what had happened and that she hadn't done something else wrong. This place was strange, maybe even more so than Sunnydale. With the ever-chattering Fred, who rambled comfortably about anything under the sun and always tried to help Cara understand the simplest things, for which she was both amused and grateful. Gunn had accepted her quickly and she was scarcely able to avoid his questions about this move or that move. The demon had shown her a kindness and understanding that surprised her, recognizing when she was confused or troubled by something. And Gwen was something to be marveled. Cara knew about her abilities, the lightning and the electricity that she seemed to control with the touch of a button, but there was something else about the woman that left Cara searching for words. She was so different, so feminine.

And Wesley. Her Watcher. That was more uncharted territory. A Watcher who was just hers, who didn't have other girls to look after, who didn't wake her up at the crack of dawn for practice or leave her a stack of books to read in the afternoon. He liked to ask her strange questions. Most of them, she didn't know the answers and often she wondered if they even had answers. But when he looked at her, he saw her. Not just another Slayer, not just another potential. Her. It was an odd feeling. Good but odd. And he listened.

He'd listened when Lorne had returned with a bottle of tawny liquid and a tired voice. The conversation had unfolded around Cara, breaking over her like the waves or wind.

_"If I never read another girl like that again, it'll be too soon." _

_"How bad is it?" Wesley's concern had been strangely comforting._

_"About two exits past bad and into the realm of depravity." The demon shook his head sadly. "They stripped her bare. I haven't seen that kind of brainwashing in, well, ever. Professional work too. Very good."_

_Fred frowned worriedly, glancing at Cara with an unspoken apology. "Why would they do that?"_

_"To get the perfect Slayer." Wesley rubbed his healing shoulder in small, absent-minded circles as he spoke. "Take away emotion. Everything that makes them human."_

_"Slayer concentrate." Lorne finished off his drink in one gulp and poured himself another. "She doesn't know anything else. There are bits and pieces of humanity surfacing but she doesn't understand them. Doesn't know how to deal with them."_

_"I can't believe the Council would do this to an innocent girl."_

_"Willow did say she was like a robot," Fred pointed out matter-of-factly._

_"Not like, dearest. She is a robot. There's no personality of her own in there. The good news is that they managed to instill a sense of duty that would put a samurai to shame," Lorne elaborated, shuddering and starting on his second drink. "And I don't think they were finished with their programming. She's too focused, too raw."_

_"What's so wrong about wanting a RoboSlayer?" Gunn settled onto the bottom step. "From their point of view of course. She does her job, kicking demon ass. What's wrong with that?"_

_"Remember what she looked like when she came here?" Fred wrung her hands a little nervously. "All that blood. All those scars. How can that be a life worth living? Buffy's been a Slayer for ten years and she doesn't have that many scars."_

_"That's because Buffy has a life outside of slaying. Cara doesn't. Her entire existence consists of killing demons." Wesley took a seat next to Fred and Gwen. "She probably doesn't even consider doing anything else. As long as she has enough food to sustain life and gets a few hours of sleep, all she cares about is killing. And she won't last long, she can't."_

_"You're right about that," Lorne agreed unhappily. "Even the perfect soldier can't escape the aftermath of war. You have to pay the piper eventually. And what you see isn't who she really is. The girl inside, the soul, isn't anything like that. I only got echoes, but believe me...they did quite the number on her."_

_"Is there anything we can do?"_

_"We could actually do more harm than good since we don't know exactly what they've done to her." Lorne offered Gunn a drink as he sat down. "She's begun to build her own moral structure, the way a child learns right and wrong from their parents. Except she's been learning from the streets and the gutters. There's a lot of rage, a lot of aggression. More despair than Ive seen in a long time. She knows she's different but she doesn't know why. And she doesn't understand her emotions or even what they are. In all that confusion, something's got to give. She's gonna snap like a twig sooner or later and I really do not want to be around when it happens."_

_"Anything you can tell us that might help?"_

_"Whatever happened after she left Sunnydale, it shook her up big time. It's become a marker for everything in her world. How she determines who lives and dies. And make no mistake, she has no difficulty believing that she's the one who should make that call."_

_The furrows in Wesley's brow deepened as he frowned. "She asked if Buffy trusted us."_

_"And she probably would have killed us if she hadn't believed you when you said yes. Wouldn't have thought twice about it." Lorne finished off another glass. "Those memories are a beacon in a world of death and blood. She's holding on to them for dear life, having an identity crisis without even knowing what's going on. No idea that she's in trouble."_

_"Anything else?"_

_Lorne hesitated. "Something. Maybe. It wasn't too clear." He rubbed his forehead wearily. "Like a whisper in the background. Everything's a little hard to read with all the damage they've done. But there was something there. Underneath. It could have been a deeper part of Cara, fighting against the conditioning. But it didn't feel human. It's dark. Darker than anything I've seen in awhile."_

_"The essence of the Slayer power, perhaps."_

_"I don't know. It all depends on how deep they went. I suspect they did the works, the whole kit and caboodle, no stone left unturned kind of deal, so no. And it did feel older. Ageless, even. Give me a few days before you want me to read her again. In the meantime, all I can suggest is to do what you kids do best. Treat her like a human being. When she finally reaches the breaking point, she's going to need somewhere safe to land."_

_"We may not have time to wait," Wesley told them wearily. "I received word from Iverson this afternoon and they need all the Slayers in Sunnydale in a few weeks for a meeting with the American military."_

_"Buffy mentioned that they knew about the Slayers," Gwen spoke up for the first time. "When she called to let us know Angel and Cordy were on their way. Said they wanted to make a deal with them. Something about having children."_

_"The Slayer lines, yes. They're worried about regeneration. Iverson wants to make sure they aren't treated like cattle." Wesley glanced toward Cara. "Maybe I can get some answers then, about what they've done to her and why."_

There it was. The truth about why she was different and why nothing made sense to her. She was broken; a defective tool that needed to be taken back for repairs because she didn't work the way she was supposed to. It hurt and she didn't understand why it hurt anymore than she understood that day in the field when she had ached because she had nearly killed Xander Harris. His stake was tucked snugly at her side as always. Pulling it out, she traced the patterns engraved in the wood as she had done so often to focus herself on slaying. There was something wrong with her.

She'd suspected it, had wondered about it. Somehow it was worse knowing that she'd been right, that there was something about her that made her different, that made her wrong. Damaged. She'd seen the pity in their eyes; pity for the broken Slayer. When they had stopped talking about her and retreated into their offices, she crept up through the rafters and out one of the skylights to the roof where she could stare out at the city and pretend it was just an endless sweep of sparkling diamonds. For the first time in weeks, the air had been washed clean by the storms and she could see all of Los Angeles stretching out around her. It would return to the smog bound haze soon enough, but until then, she would be content to just watch it twinkle. At least until she was taken back to Sunnydale to face the men who had broken her.

"There you are." Wesley's voice interrupted her thoughts. She didn't turn around as he climbed through the skylight and settled onto the roof behind her. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't understand," she answered simply.

"What don't you understand?"

"Why am I wrong?"

He was silent for a long moment before answering her carefully. "What was done to you isn't your fault, Cara. What they did was wrong. Not you."

"I kill demons. I do my duty as a Slayer. How is that wrong?"

"There's more to it than just the slaying, Cara."

"I don't understand," she repeated with frustration. The only thing she had ever understood was her duty, was the fact that she was a Slayer and born to a sacred birthright to protect and defend those who couldn't protect themselves. The homeless and the lost; the nameless, faceless ones who spent their lives beneath the shoes of people who couldn't see them. Faces and eyes in the slums of Detroit who had been grateful for her help in finally ridding their neighborhoods of the demons preying on their children. It had made sense, had been clear. Now? Nothing was clear anymore, nothing was black and white.

He shifted awkwardly, moving up to sit at her side and stare out over the city. "It looks peaceful from here. Like a different world. Maybe even one that doesn't have demons or Slayers. Just people living out their lives. Arguing over the back fence about whose bushes are dropping berries on whose lawn or the dog that barks too much."

It was the most he'd ever said about anything other than demons and weapons. She turned toward him, studying his profile carefully. The hint of gray beginning to show at his temples after years of fighting; bandages peeked out from under the collar of his shirt and the edge of his sleeve. There were still charcoal smudges beneath his eyes from the poison. Blue gray eyes. His cultured accent reminded her of the Academy, of the girls she had trained with who were now dead, and the only place she had called home. But she didn't know what home meant either. She wanted, no, she needed something. But she didn't know what to ask for or if she should ask or could ask, or what would happen even if she did know.

"How is your shoulder?" she asked finally, feeling the weight of their silence bearing down on her.

"Much better. That was quick thinking of you, in the tunnels. Very resourceful."

"To see a World in a grain of sand, and a Heaven in a wild flower."

He looked at her with surprise. "William Blake. Where did you learn that?"

"They taught us. To remind us that in the answers can be found in the smallest things and most unlikely places." She met his gaze, searching for the pity she had seen earlier. There was only curiosity.

"Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, and Eternity in an hour." He smiled, a real, honest smile without tension or worry. "That's only the first stanza, there's much more to it. I have a copy if you'd like to read it."

"I would. Like that." She wasn't sure if that was the right answer. Were there any right answers?

His fingers brushed against her shoulder in a gesture she interpreted as comfort. "You should get some rest."

"Soon." She turned back to the city.

"I'll see you in the morning then."

Nodding to confirm that she understood, she waited until he had slipped back through the skylight before she started breathing again. In an instant, clarity and understanding had pierced through the fog of confusion. As his hand had swept over her shoulder, warming her skin, she had realized what it was that she ached for. Contact. Human contact. To be touched. And somehow, she knew it was something she could never ask for.

* * *

Best friends were always there for each other. Especially after the world had ended and they hadn't been there to take the phone calls where you told them you loved them and poured out a lifetime of gratitude onto a machine. They always welcomed intrusion and fixed hot cocoa when you were down even if you were pounding on their door at five in the morning. At least, Willow hoped that was in the best friend contract somewhere, because she wasn't even close to being tired despite running on very little sleep for several days.

Xander blinked sleepily as he opened the door. He was wearing a robe, tightening it self-consciously as he ushered her into his apartment. "You're back!"

Suddenly she was wrapped in Xander arms, hugged tightly to his chest as he swung her around like a little girl. Willow grinned as she pulled away. "We're back. Although, that sounded kinda eerie and freaky. Major Poltergeist flashback."

"But you're back! And the world's happily spinning away in space."

"Sorry to wake you up. Just needed to unwind a bit before I crash."

"I know exactly what you need." Holding her hand, he led her into the kitchen area and motioned for her to sit down. Home brewed with love and hand made goodness. Grinning, he pulled out a tin of Stephens Gourmet Hot Cocoa. "Mint or regular?"

"Wow. The good stuff. Ill take a mint, sir, if you would be so kind."

"You guys deserve it. Where is everyone else?" He filled a glass of water and slid it into the microwave to heat.

"Last time I checked," Willow paused to take a mental head count. "Giles was heading back to bed, Dawn was in her room, Buffy went out to patrol, Angel and Cordy left Dodge over an hour ago, and Faith is probably turning to stone on the back porch."

"I thought only trolls turned to stone."

"Well. Not stone then. But shes very still and stone-like."

"How is she?" Xander stirred the cocoa carefully, waiting until it was dissolved before handing the glass to Willow. "There has to be a law somewhere for Slayers. If you sleep with a vampire, you'll have to kill him later."

"Must be. It's a little weird. Two vampires with souls, both got involved with Slayers and ended up on the pointy end of a weapon." She blew on the hot cocoa for a distraction, trying to gather her thoughts enough to give Xander an accurate description. "I think she's okay. I mean, once she started talking again. There was throwing up and creepy staring out the window the whole way back. I'm not sure if she's actually cried at all."

Xander nodded sagely. "Sounds like shock."

"That's what Riley thought."

"Riley Finn?"

"One and the same. He was part of the team that found Faith." She wrapped her hands around the glass and breathed in the scented steam as it rose. "All she told him was that Spike was gone. He said she was lying in a pile of dust."

His frown deepened. "Maybe we should find a psychiatrist for her."

"I don't think she'd do it. But it would probably be better if she would at least cry. I haven't seen a single tear." Willow leaned forward on her elbows, sighing wearily. "And I checked every twenty or thirty miles. Nothing."

"She probably doesn't want anyone to see her cry." Xander moved around the counter, sitting next to Willow and slipping his arm over her shoulder comfortingly.

"And poor Dawn. She's been a real trouper."

"Bit's all grown up now."

Willow leaned her head against his shoulder. "I still can't believe it's over. I keep thinking that the world is still gonna end or maybe it already has and we just don't know it yet.

"At least we wont have another apocalypse for a month or so. Do you think they're seasonal?"

She sipped her cocoa, savoring the velvety mint chocolate flavored liquid. "They must be. Like hurricanes or June bugs."

"Buffy's out patrolling, huh?" He smiled, brushing his hand against Willows hair. "Good old Buffy. Out killing things when she needs to work through her issues. We should all take a few lessons from the Slayer handbook. Maybe we'd all be better people."

"Maybe. I wish Faith would get out there and kill something. If it would help, I mean, and as long as its not human." She started, almost knocking Xander's arm off of her shoulders as she suddenly realized that Buffy and Faith weren't that different. At least not anymore, not in the murdering people aspect.

"Will?"

"Just thought of something," she explained lamely. It wasn't her place to tell Xander. He hadn't even been there in the basement to see Ethan had done to Faith. "Have you seen Faith?"

"Not since she left for New Orleans."

"Then you haven't seen her face."

He shifted uneasily. "It wasn't Spike, right? Cause that bastard said it was and I really don't want to believe him. No one has given me a straight yes or no, guess they figured I already knew. And I was pretty sure it wasn't Spike on account of her sleeping with him, but stranger things have happened."

"Sorry. It was Ethan who did it. None of us have wanted to talk about it."

"How bad?"

She shuddered and curled closer to him. "It was awful. And now? I mean, she's gotta still be recovering from that. You don't just get tortured for days and walk away from it. Slayer or not."

"She'll be all right, Will. She has us."

"What if were not enough? We weren't enough for Buffy when she had to kill Angel."

He placed a hand over hers. "But we're older and wiser now. Or at least we know what not to do this time. And we can slash all the bus tires with incredible speed and precision if you're really worried."

"Thanks." She returned to her cocoa, finishing it off before it had time to get any colder. "I know that its gonna take time and that the best thing we can do is listen. I just wish there was more for us to do."

"Will?"

"Xander."

"Bear with me for just a minute, okay?"

"Sure."

He took a deep breath, pulling her closer and resting his head against the top of hers. "I'm hearing a lot of worry about Faith and some worry about Dawn. Which is fine and good. What I'm not hearing is worry about Willow."

"But I'm fine."

He tugged the cup from her hands and took hold of them. "I listened to those messages you left me Will, and I'm sorry I wasn't here to get your phone calls. What I heard was a very strong woman facing the end of the world. And, like any intelligent being, she was pretty terrified and she was afraid she wouldn't be able to tell the people she cared about that she loved them."

Willow sniffed, feeling the prick of tears in her eyes. Trust Xander to figure her out. He always did.

He continued. "But the world doesn't end. And she drives back across the country. The entire time, she's more worried about everyone around her. How can she make them feel better, ease their pain. Because that's the kind of woman she is. Always being strong for everyone around her, even when it means that she has to pretend not to be scared, not to be in pain." His voice caught, trembling slightly as he spoke. "But I got those messages, Will. And I know you were terrified. I know that you really wanted to save Spike, in spite of the fact that he tried to eat you once and threatened to put a broken bottle through your face if you didn't cast a love spell on his psycho ex. You wanted to save him because you care about people."

Blinking released the flood of tears that had been building up inside. Holding on him for strength, she tried to smile through her tears. "I feel bad for feeling bad. I mean, it wasn't like Spike and I were the bestest of best friends or anything. But he died to save the world. So he can't go to some hell dimension, right? That's got to be a get out of Hell free card for demons. I don't want him to be in hell for eternity."

"I'm sure he's happy as a dead little vampire can be. And I'm sure he knows you tried everything to save him. That's what matters."

"Maybe it's that thing, you know, when people die and suddenly you forget about all the bad times and remember all the times they did something good or at least not completely evil. Like the time he hit Tara in the nose to prove she wasn't a demon. Fresh tears bubbled up as she continued to stammer. And when he tried to bite me with the chip and couldn't, he actually tried to make me feel better. I said I wasn't the type of girl that vamps liked to bite, that he was just settling because he couldn't have Buffy. And he, he said he'd wanted to bite me before. Completely bite-able."

"He did have that pesky habit of comforting women in need. In a weird, evil way of course."

She sniffed as she wiped away tears. "We don't even have his dust or anything."

"Because that would be morbid."

"But we should have something. Something that says Spike Was Here and...and He Saved the World. Even if he was a vampire and mostly evil until he got the chip."

Xander shifted, rubbing light circles on her back. "Then we should do something about that."

* * *

It was good to be lying on something that didn't have four wheels and a combustion engine; that didn't hum and vibrate or hit bumps and cracks in the road beneath them. To be curled up on the safe and familiar mattress in her safe and familiar bedroom with a cape of black leather wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth. The sun would be coming up soon and Dawn was feeling the bone weariness that came from sitting in the same place for a few thousand miles. She'd closed her blinds carefully, then Buffy's and then the blinds in Buffy's old room where Faith would be sleeping. Giles had disappeared into the basement where he'd set up a futon.

The world was still here, her eclectic family was back in Sunnydale and mostly under one roof. Minus one blond vampire. It felt different than the four years he'd been gone. She'd made up a hundred stories of where he was and what he was doing, after she'd stopped wanting to set him on fire. When she'd realized that Buffy actually missed him, that she had really cared. The world was full of gray areas that couldn't be dealt with in a consistent, rational manner and Buffy's tryst with Spike was one of them. As soon as she'd realized that what happened between her sister and Spike was exactly that, between them. Not between Buffy, Spike, and Dawn. After that, it was easier to let go of the anger she'd been bottling up inside and the guilt she felt over wanting him to come back even after he'd hurt Buffy.

Fighting against the First Evil had helped bring everything into perspective. For a few hours, when she'd thought she was a potential Slayer, she'd been almost numb with the shock and what she'd really wanted was Spike, with his unusual brand of comfort. Like threatening to snap her neck when she had run away or telling her she couldn't be evil because he knew a thing or two about evil. He probably wouldn't be winning any awards for best things to say to distraught teenagers but he'd always managed to find the things she needed to hear.

In some of her dreams, Spike was living in a crypt somewhere with a cute little vampire who made him happy. In others, he was trekking across the globe and writing postcards back to Sunnydale, telling them how and where he was. He just never sent them. Of course, he'd come back with a whole box full some day and talk about how he was afraid to send them. Sometimes she imagined that he'd gone back to England and was secretly keeping watch over Giles. Which was ridiculous, of course, but they were her fantasies and she didn't care if they didn't make sense. All of them ended the same way. He came back. At first, he'd come back for her graduation. Once that passed, she dreamed that he came back for her wedding or maybe Buffy's graduation. One event or another finally drew him back to the Hellmouth. As the years passed, her hope that he wasnt blowing in the wind somewhere had dimmed and she'd begun to worry that maybe Xander had found him after all.

At least this time she knew and there would be no more dreaming. No more creating worlds where he was safe and on his way home. Without him out there somewhere, the world seemed like a much scarier place to live in. They'd gotten along without him for four years; built lives that didn't include a vampire named Spike, but she had always left a space, an empty part of her life that he could fit into if he ever came back. She wasn't sure what to fill it with now that he would never be coming back. It would have been easier if he'd never come back at all, never found her in the tunnels and saved her life. Called her Bit and stroked her hair as though he'd never left. If she hadn't jumped at the chance to fit him back into her life, to find a place for him in her world. He was one of the few parts of her life where she knew most of her memories were real. There were monk memories of Spike but all of her favorites were one hundred percent real. No monk fraud there.

The sun began to peek over the horizon; she could see it sneaking around the edges of her blinds. Footsteps in the hallway and doors closing signaled the return of her sister. Dawn smiled as she pulled the jacket over her eyes and burrowed into the darkness. Now that they were all alone, lying in the safety of their own beds, it would be easier to take down the walls, to stop being strong for everyone else who was trying so hard to be strong for you. Dawn would cry, Buffy would cry, maybe Faith would cry after she pulled out of the despondent trance she was in. Willow would go to Xander. It was how they worked, how they grieved.

In a way, that was the best tribute to Spike there could have been.


	33. Deal With The Devil

**Deal With The Devil**

There was no reason for Lilah Morgan to personally oversee the installation of the replacement windows at Angel Investigations and, other than the usual reminder for Angel and his demon-fighting troupe of clowns that they were always welcome to return to the main office building of Wolfram and Hart, there was only one prospect that made the commute valuable. Angel Investigations had added a Slayer to their roster and that didn't happen everyday, especially now that Slayer blood was a frighteningly scarce commodity. Of course, seeing that pinched look on Wesley's face always brightened her day. It was a reminder to him that he'd tried to save her and failed. To pass the time she imagined him undressing as she waited for the installers to finish the job, remembering that his hands were scarred and rough from fighting as they moved smoothly over the buttons of his shirt. He was favoring his right shoulder and she could see the telltale shape of bandages underneath the fabric. There was something else that she couldn't put her finger on.

It wasn't that she cared. Her business was to know what was happening. Knowledge was power, gold, and blood. It was the only currency that never lost its value and she prided herself on being one of the richest women in the dimension. She did her homework and she put in the hours; now that she was little more than a well proportioned mass of supernatural energy, there wasn't much else to do. Manifest spirits didn't need to eat or sleep or worry about dying. In fact, death had been quite liberating for Lilah. Sooner or later, the Senior Partners would reward her for the long hours and extra work she had put in. They'd given Lindsey McDonald a new hand; they could give her a new body. Someday. She was content to wait.

Sunlight should have warmed her legs as it spilled through the empty windows and crept along the floor. It would have been so much better if Cordelia Chase had never woken up from her coma; if the former cheerleader hadn't wrapped everyone around her finger and taken off for the moral high ground. She'd turned on the waterworks and then the disgusting stoicism as she convinced them all to put a few more miles between them and Wolfram and Hart. With a few perks, of course, binding contracts were still binding even from the other side of Los Angeles and the Senior Partners were perfectly amenable to giving Angel a long leash. Hence the Necro-glass windows so that Angel could walk in the sunlight without catching on fire. Except, of course, Queen Cordelia's office because she had complained that sunlight through the treated glass felt cold on her precious skin. Lilah didn't believe that for a second.

After three years, they still tiptoed around her with polite greetings and questions about work that were always prefaced with the fact that they really didn't want to know the details. As if she would actually tell them. Interest lost in the tedious installation of the windows, she turned her attention to the humans and demons moving about the building. There was Angel, looking pensive as ever as he read over case reports and searched the newspapers for new evil to fight. Wesley and his Slayer were inching their way through a stack of ancient texts. Lilah could see the familiar excitement on Wesley's face and rolled her eyes. Trust him to get the one Slayer who could truly appreciate his big brain. She knew all about his dismal failure working with Faith and Buffy and could tell by the glint of determination that he was going to get it right this time. Fred was happily number crunching, Lorne was answering phones. Business as usual at Angel Investigations.

The person who really interested Lilah was the Slayer. A full inch taller than Lilah, the girl looked every inch a Montana cowgirl. Dressed in loose cargo pants and tank top, there were noticeable scars crossing her arms, shoulders, and one slicing over her left clavicle. Dark brown eyes were flecked with gold and burning with hardened suspicion. To entertain herself, she wondered how the Slayer would look without the military hair cut and more feminine clothing. She had the curves even if she didn't know how to show them off or use them to her advantage and Lilah had no doubt that there was a pair of legs to die for underneath the cargo pants. Beyond physical appearance, there was something different about the Slayer and she had begun to wish that she'd paid more attention to what the Watcher's Council had been up to the past year.

"Lilah?"

She'd been so intent in her study of the Slayer that she hadn't noticed Angel approach her, skirting the edge of the sunlight. "Angel. Come to tell me thanks but no thanks? You know I have to offer." Crossing her ankles, she leaned back against the couch and smiled politely. It was always the same exchange, the same dance, the same parry and thrust that they always used.

"I'll skip the small talk just this once." He didn't smile, tucking his hands in his pockets and watching her carefully.

"I'm wounded. I practice my lines every night in front of the mirror."

"What do you know about Cara?" Straight to business, the vampire didn't appreciate the fine art of witty banter. At least not anymore.

"Cara?"

"The Slayer." Angel nodded toward the girl. "Anything about the Council's new method of training."

"Not my sphere of influence or interest. Although, I'm beginning to wonder if I should have been paying more attention." Lilah traced a pattern along the top of the cushion with one manicured fingernail. "Behavior conditioning? Repression of empathy? Have they been tinkering with their Slayers? Shame on them."

"What do you know about it?"

"There are a million fish in the sea, Angel. And more than a million ways to make a little less than human." She shrugged casually and spared another glance toward the Watcher and Slayer. "What does Wes have to say about it? He's got himself a perfect little machine, no way he can screw this one up."

Angel sat down, careful to keep out of the light. "He wants to help her. We all do."

"Rally around the poor brainwashed Slayer." She chuckled as she shook her head. "You haven't changed at all. Always saving the damsel in distress."

"She has no inhibition. No mercy, no pity. No humanity." Angel stared at the Slayer with a touch of sadness before turning back to Lilah. "She reminds me of you, Lilah."

"I'm flattered. But you have to ask yourselves, really, why do you want her to have mercy or pity? She's a Slayer. Do you want her to feel bad for the demons she's killing? Maybe hesitate one night because she feels pity and get herself cut in half. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not."

"Good. Because she's one of the three remaining Slayers and unless they all start popping out babies, there won't be any more. Which, in itself, is a truly appealing idea."

"Can you help her?"

Lilah paused and tipped her head to the side. It was always such a pleasure to watch him swallow his pride and ask for something. "You mean reprogram her?"

"I mean un-program her. Undo the damage they've done."

"Angel to the rescue." Smiling, she checked the progress of the windows, trying to corral all the new possibilities that were taking shape in her mind. An opportunity to get their hands on a Slayer, find out what had been done to her, and maybe a few extras. It had definite potential.

"Can you?"

"We can try. There's a whole department dedicated to cerebral programming; Fred should know, she requisitioned the funding. We can make her whatever you want her to be. Still have that Slayer fetish? We could tailor her to your every whim, even give her blond hair."

"I want her to be who she really is."

"Still so naive." Lilah stood up gracefully. "There isn't a single brainwashing technique in existence, mystical or otherwise, that can give you something for nothing. So she's Little Miss Full Metal Jacket now...that was always there. No matter how sweet and innocent she might have been, she's always had the heart of a killer."

"Not according to Lorne."

"He wears rose-colored glasses and you know it." The windows would have to continue without her supervision. "I'll make you a deal. Bring your Slayer in tomorrow morning and we'll have her evaluated, see if there's anything we can do to help."

"What do you get?" Angel's voice was wary.

"A chance to get up close and personal with a Slayer. One who isn't completely deranged, that is. And we'd like to know what the Council's been up to as much as you do. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Good. Have her at the main office before ten o'clock." She headed for the doorway. "And tell her to cooperate, I'd hate to return her in less than pristine condition."

The seed of an idea began to root and grow, blossoming into a plan that even Lilah could appreciate. She'd waited three long years for the right opportunity to present itself and she fully intended to make the most of the situation. In the midst of the chaos that had overtaken the main office after the world had changed, it would be relatively easy to slip her request in underneath the radar and she had no doubt that the Senior Partners would grant her demand. It would put a Slayer in their court and she was valuable even without the endangered species tag. Discovering what had been done to the Slayer was an extra bonus and the opportunity to test out the new methods of neural transfer on something other than demons and street rats would seal the deal. It was all but hers.

Until then, there were phone calls to make and paperwork to fill out. Unfortunately, she'd have to do it herself since most of the staff was busy cataloging the books and scrolls that had decided to rewrite themselves. The rules had changed and their prophecies were adapting to the alteration. Spells and summonings that had been difficult verging on impossible in the amount of power they required were now accomplished with ease, as though the whole world had risen to the next rung on the magical ladder. They still weren't sure what had happened. A reliable source had told them that the world was going to end, dimensions bleed together, and the apocalypse that they had been waiting for would finally occur. Rumor in the underground was that the world had been saved by a vampire with a soul. Lilah also had it on good authority that Angel hadn't done anything out of the ordinary or killed any special creatures while he vacationed in Sunnydale, which meant that there had been another. And that meant someone hadn't been doing their job.

The seers reported that there was only one vampire with a soul now and they'd been relieved to see that many of the prophecies concerning Angel hadn't undergone a mystical editing job. A surveillance team was dispatched to Sunnydale once word that the government was getting involved reached Wolfram and Hart. They didn't want to share territory. Having a Slayer on their side would prove invaluable once covert ops decided to take over. The more she thought about it, the more brilliant the idea became. Best of all, it would put her into the heart of Angel's crew. Sheer brilliance.

Once she was alone in her office, she allowed a brief moment to smile and consider how her future was going to change. It would be nice to taste a glass of wine again, even a pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni. To actually feel the desk beneath her fingers and the leather against her back instead of just remembering what should be soft or hard, cold or hot. To touch and be touched without fear or revulsion. And the look on Wesley's face would be priceless when he realized what had happened. As far as replacement bodies went, it left a few things to be desired. She'd have to get the scars worked on and the hair would have to change. Being a Slayer would have its advantages. Maybe she'd try out the super strength on a few of the bitches on the second floor and break their catty, pathetic necks without ruining her manicure. The first item of business would be to kill that half-demon whore that Wesley was running around with.

* * *

"Thought I'd find you here." Buffy's voice mingled pleasantly with the sighs and whispers of the ocean waves. She settled down onto the rocky beach next to Faith, turning to gaze out toward the setting sun as it burned a crimson trail into the Pacific. Clouds and water turned coral and peach as it slipped below the horizon. "You up for patrol? Not that there's anything to kill. All the baddies are still hiding away somewhere."

"Yeah." Faith's voice wavered, hoarse with disuse. Their first days back in Sunnydale had been spent killing surplus monsters roaming the Hellmouth and now they were searching high and low for something, anything, to fight. Boring was fine with Faith. She was too tired to care.

"We could stop by the Espresso Pump or get some ice cream."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Just don't." Faith turned away from Buffy, tucking her legs against her chest and resting her chin on her arms. "Got the whole psychotherapy in jail. I know what you're trying to do."

"I'm trying to be your friend, Faith. That's all."

Faith tried to smile. It got lost somewhere in the nerves traveling from her brain to her lips. Didn't seem too far to go but it was far enough for the impulses to get lost and end up in her fingers. They twitched and tingled and she could still feel his dust on her skin. She turned back to the ocean; safe, familiar water that never asked her to talk about it. God, she couldn't talk about it. Not yet. Not when she could still see it and feel it. When it still happened over and over again every time she closed her eyes until she wondered if the world had ended and this was hell.

"Besides," Buffy continued cheerfully. "Friday's the big pow-wow with the government types and the Council. I could use a little R and R before then."

Faith picked at a rock, lightly dragging one edge through the gravel and sand. Biting her lip, she looked back out to sea and hurled the rock toward the water. "This is where...where he..." her voice stuck in her throat.

"Where he drowned you," Buffy finished softly.

Faith kept her eyes focused on the horizon. "Supposed to go back to all the old places. Get some closure. At least that's what the prison doc said. Face the past."

"I get that." Buffy hesitated briefly. "I used to go back to the mansion. Where Angel and I fought. I'd stare at the ground for hours."

"Did it help?"

"Some days were better than others." Buffy touched Faith's shoulder lightly. "I know we haven't been the best of friends and we'll probably never really get along but I know what you're going through. I know how it feels."

"Yeah." More than one syllable was too much for Faith. She knew that technically Buffy didn't know what it felt like because Faith hadn't been the one holding the stake. But she had killed Spike just the same. Her hands had unlocked the chains and carried the stake into building. Her hands hadn't been fast enough to stop him. It was still her fault even if she hadn't been the one to pierce his heart. She didn't want to talk; she didn't have the words.

"Come on, we'll pick up a movie or something and crash in front of the TV. Nothing like good old fashioned cinema therapy. We're bound to find one about people who have suckier lives than we do."

"Doubt that." She let Buffy pull her to her feet and down the beach. The voice of reason and practicality was whispering in her ear. Pain would fade, anger would burn away, and eventually she would have to get on with her life. She listened to it without believing. Maybe it was true and maybe the pain would stop but the emptiness would never go away.

"I'm thinking of starting a club. With buttons and T-shirts and everything. Fifty Ways to Kill Your Lover. Or just drive them away and into the arms of another woman." Buffy's keys jingled in her hand.

The corner of Faith's mouth quirked as she climbed into the passenger seat of Buffy's car. She still couldn't believe Buffy actually had a driver's license, let alone a noticeable lack of tickets for the last three years. The Scoobies were full of surprises that way. Granted, Buffy still wasn't up for any awards in the driving circuit. Grabbing the armrest, Faith tried to relax as she took another turn too fast and too sharp.

"I think it'll be nice, all three Slayers in one place. Wait till you meet Cara, she's...interesting. From what Angel said when I called to coordinate travel plans, she's changed a lot since she left Sunnydale. Wesley's her new Watcher."

"How'd book boy get himself another Slayer?"

"Guess Iverson got her to head out to L.A. by sending a group of vamps after Wesley so she'd have to protect him. At least that's what Wes thinks."

"Council's a piece of work," Faith said bitterly.

"Iverson doesn't pull punches, that's for sure. But I don't think he'll be trying to kill us anytime soon." Buffy tapped the steering wheel impatiently as she pulled up behind a slower driver. "That's not the funny part though. She threw Angel across the room."

"What?"

"Apparently, our nearest and dearest Wonder Vamp was working on his sense of humor."

"That can't be good."

Buffy grinned, hurtling through an intersection a second before the light turned red. "He made a crack about Wesley being guinea pig for the Council, figured he couldn't possibly mess up more than he did with you, and she went postal Slayer on him. Wes had to pull her off and explain that he was just joking. She's got this whole touch my Watcher and die mentality."

"Borg Slayer doesn't have a sense of humor then."

"Not much of one. From what Iverson said, she doesn't have much as far as the whole being a person is concerned. Angel wanted to know why you and I have been holding out on him."

Faith laughed. It hurt a little but it felt good too. "That so?"

"Yep. Said Cara tossed him like a stick. I pointed out that she's got a good six inches on both of us, at least...and probably fifteen or twenty more pounds of solid muscle. That girl's built like an Amazon. Add Slayer strength to that and-"

"Hello Xena."

"Serves him right. I don't think he ever believed that either you or I could take him." Buffy pulled into a parking space outside the Video Palace and climbed out of the car. "It's funny. Neither of us are really up there on the size scale and Kendra wasn't exactly pushing the model envelope. In fact, Cara's taller and bigger than most of the potential Slayers who came here four years ago."

"Your point?" Faith stuck her hands into her pants pockets, glancing around the brightly lit interior of the rental store.

"Just wondering why the shamans didn't make some sort of clause that all Slayers should be big, strapping, warrior women. I mean, why chose someone who weights ninety pounds soaking wet to defend the world against the forces of darkness?"

"Yeah. But vamps probably don't think of women like Cara as easy prey. More likely to go after us."

"Not high on the comfort scale," Buffy mused as she started down one of the aisles. "What are we in the mood for? How 'bout Steel Magnolias? It's depressing as hell. Bound to make us glad for our lives."

Faith shook her head mutely. Magnolias. Would she ever be able to smell that lotion again without wanting to burst into tears? Turning away from Buffy, she grabbed a case and tried to the read the blurb on the back, her vision blurred with tears. Taking a few deep breaths, she stood rigidly rooted to the same spot until she was sure the urge to cry had passed before placing the case back on the shelf and trailing after Buffy.

"What do you think about the baby thing?" Buffy asked absently, reading the back of a movie. "We could do a Jet Li movie. I always get ideas for cool new Slayer moves. Especially from the old ones where they didn't use all that fancy computer and wire stuff."

"Whatever."

"I'm sort of chick-flicked out anyway since those are Dawn's favorites." She swapped the case for the video and headed for the checkout line. "Do you think they'll insist on watching or something like that? I mean, this is the government and all. Or maybe they'll make us do all weird tests and stuff."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Us, the Slayers, having government mandated babies."

"Don't figure it matters." Faith glanced around for listening ears. "Unless they strap me down and get with the test tubes, they're not getting shit from me."

"Faith."

"I'm not a fucking whore for the stripes and stars, B." Faith brushed the subject away. "Besides, not really looking forward to ruining my figure so a bunch of labcoats can have little Slayers running around."

"Can't say I'm happy about losing this trim waist myself." Buffy shrugged and picked up the video as they headed out of the store. "But it's sort of been a dream of mine. Kinda. For a few years now. I didn't even know Slayers could have children until I met Principle Wood. His mother was a Slayer."

"How old was he when she went down?"

"Four." Buffy frowned. "Why?"

"What kind of a woman brings a baby into this mess? Knowing she won't be around to watch 'em grow up." Faith slipped into the car and buckled her seatbelt tiredly. Buffy didn't understand what it was like. She'd had a good, loving mother for most of her life and took it for granted that everyone else had the same luxury.

Buffy drove silently for several minutes. "I guess...well...I just thought...maybe if the government was willing to help. With the demons and the evil. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad."

"Maybe you'd make it long enough to see your kid graduate from high school."

"Yeah. What about you? Haven't you ever wanted to have a baby?"

"Long time ago." Faith chewed on the edge of her thumb absently. "When I was nine. Had this doll I used to carry around, pretend it was my kid. Damn thing was missing one eye and half her hair. Just a phase. I got over it."

"I'm sorry things weren't better for you."

"So am I. So's the whole fucked up world and Boston social services. They hated me. Always fighting and mouthing off."

"Foster homes?"

"Tried a few. Always sent me back to dear old mum. She'd try to clean up her act every few months and prove that she could take care of me. Wanted the welfare money, I figure." Faith frowned as a new possibility occurred to her. "Giles says all the Slayer lines are gone, right?"

"Dead as a doornail."

"Then...if my mom was the one I got the Slayer gig from." Faith bit her lip and rubbed her temple tiredly.

"Maybe," Buffy answered carefully. "Iverson said that whoever was behind the murders was pretty thorough. Maybe you got it from your dad though. Fifty fifty chance."

"Either way, one of them is six feet under right now."

"I'm sorry."

"No worries. Doesn't matter to me."

"Faith."

"Don't want to talk about it." Faith shook her head, bolting from the car as soon as it stopped in the driveway on Revello Drive. Past was past. Didn't matter if the bitch was dead or if her unknown, nameless father was the one. She was not going to feel guilty for not protecting her biological parents. Her dumb slut of a mother deserved what she got anyway.

"Hey guys. Movie night?" Dawn smiled from the couch in the living room and closed her book. "What'd you get?"

"Action flick." Buffy closed the front door behind her and headed for the television. "Popcorn?"

"Nah. I'm good." Faith sat down, tapping the armrest restlessly. "How's the book?"

"Boring. No patrol?"

"Nothing worth killing."

"I'm sure things will pick up. Not that I want them to but it does sort of happen around here." Dawn tucked her feet against her side, playing with the cover of her book. "Is this a Slayer research type movie or can I stay and hang out with you guys?"

"You're always welcome to stay, Dawnie." Buffy slid the tape into the VCR and rounded up the remote controls.

"If you guys are gonna talk shop the whole time then I'll go amuse myself elsewhere."

"No shop talk. Strictly mindless entertainment."

"Cool." Dawn moved toward Faith, clearing space for Buffy at the other end of the couch.

Faith was a little surprised when Dawn tossed a pillow onto her lap and laid down, stretching her long legs over her sister's. Buffy threw her an apologetic look as the movie started. Credits rolled across the screen accompanied by the cheesy music that always seemed to plague martial arts movies. Tentatively, Faith reached down to brush Dawn's hair behind her ear gently, noticing that the teen smiled at the touch.

"We used to watch movies this way," Buffy offered lamely. "With mom. You can kick her off your lap if you want, she'll deal."

"It's cool, B." Faith smiled sadly, picturing the three Summers women curled up on the couch watching movies. "Remember after I got out of the hospital. Took you and Joyce hostage."

"Yeah." Dawn rolled onto her back, staring up at Faith. "Except it wasn't real. Monk fabrication."

"Hurt real enough. Hair puller." Faith grinned, smoothing Dawn's hair away from her forehead. "Sorry 'bout the shiner."

"No problem. Mom was pretty ticked but she eventually stopped ranting about having your head on a platter with an apple in your mouth. Did Spike tell you about the time she hit him with an axe?" Faith winced at the mention of his name.

"Dawn. Watch the movie." Buffy cautioned, eyes studying Faith sympathetically.

She twisted onto her side again and Faith gently combed her fingers through the long silky hair pouring over the pillow. She still felt naked without her own hair around her face, over her neck and shoulders. It had always been there to hide her from the world around her and keep her safe; a shield of thick chestnut waves. Without it, she had to work harder to keep her emotions from showing. Always hiding. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes against the tears threatening to humiliate her. She would not cry in front of Buffy. Please, don't let her cry in front of Buffy. She had to get away.

"Actually, guys." Faith nudged Dawn softly. "I'm gonna call it a night. Spend some quality time with my pillow."

"You sure?" Dawn sat up quickly. "I mean, you're not leaving because of me, right? Cause I can sit up like a normal person. Fully capable of complete sitting upness."

"It's not you, Dawnie. I'm just tired, okay?" She got up and headed for the stairs.

"Good night, Faith," Buffy called after her.

"Night, B. Dawn." She didn't look back, tense from the effort it took to force down the tears.

Up the stairs two and three at a time, she stopped herself from slamming the bathroom door behind her. Scowling into the mirror at the dark circles under bloodshot eyes, she twisted the hot water faucet, flicking her fingers through the stream as she waited for it to get warm enough. Scooping up the hot water, she splashed her face a couple of times, washing away the offending tears with soap and heat. Blinded by the water, she fumbled with the faucet for a second before reaching for a towel. She buried her face in the cloth and breathed in the scent of fabric softener, trying to calm the beating of her heart. Fingers tightened around the fabric as she lowered it, meeting her own gaze head on. It was still hard. Would it ever get easier? She felt brittle, breakable. All she needed was a good shove from someone and she would shatter to pieces.

She was sure there was a name for it in the psychology books Buffy had bought and tried to keep out of sight so that Faith wouldn't know they were trying to figure out what was wrong with her. Couldn't blame them for trying. Part of her even hoped that they would find something, a cure maybe. Something to fit the pieces together, to make sense. Turning away from the mirror with disgust, she left the crumpled towel next to the sink and disappeared into the safety of her bedroom. Stripping down quickly, she slipped into the cool sheets and fluffed the pillow. She'd never believed that she could get used to sharing a bed with anyone; now she hated sleeping alone, hated waking up and not having him there. Hated the loneliness, the emptiness, the little voice in her head that taunted her. She'd never find anyone like him. She'd always be alone. It hadn't ever mattered before and she wasn't sure why it did now.

Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling listlessly. Despite her nonchalance, the meeting on Friday reared its ugly head like a dragon and threatened to send her cowering behind Buffy. The last time the Council had come to Sunnydale, they'd tried to kill her. And Riley Finn would be there. She wasn't sure the roll call could get any worse. Would they send her back to jail now that they knew she was still alive? She'd violated parole in a hundred different ways. Was it actually a trap? Far as she could tell, all they wanted were Slayer babies. Slayer Mommies weren't necessarily part of the package.

Buffy seemed to trust Iverson, at least she trusted that he wasn't going to kill them or turn them into science experiments. Faith wasn't so sure. She hadn't met him when he'd come to Sunnydale, hadn't talked to him on the phone. Hadn't really spoken to anyone but Buffy and Dawn since they'd gotten back. Willow was busy getting back into her research, Xander had new projects going and a new girlfriend, Giles flew away to England as soon as the dust settled. Hers was a very small and tight knit social circle. She had to get the hell out of Sunnydale, it was starting to eat away at her. The little comments from Dawn. This was where Spike did this or Buffy did this. Even patrolling had lost its appeal. It should have made her feel alive, instead it left her more and more dead inside. Every vamp she tried to stake, she hesitated, overwhelmed by memories. Buffy had saved her ass half a dozen times, never saying a word about it, just asking her if everything was all right.

Everything was not fucking all right. She couldn't be here any longer, couldn't lie in this bed and stare at this ceiling. In this house with pictures of Spike downstairs on the walls. With black leather jackets hanging in two different closets, one old and worn, the other new and gleaming. Willow had taken care of Spike's affairs, giving Faith a list of names and contact information in case she ever wanted to look up the people Spike had known. She hadn't opened the box since. There were nights where she wanted nothing more than to pull out one of the black t-shirts and wrap herself in it, in something that had been his. Usually she settled for clamping the pillow down around her ears and praying for sleep to come.

When it did, she wished she'd stayed awake. She'd seen every variation of the same nightmare that she could possibly think of. Back in the cage, being whipped, beaten, burned. Then she'd be trying to get to Spike, feet chained to the ground and screaming for him to stop. He never did, the stake kept going and he always turned to dust just as her fingers reached him. Ethan's laughter haunted her sleep, his face swimming through her vision. Sometimes it changed, brown eyes became blue and the hands wielding the whip would change. It was Spike who was causing the pain. Then she would be holding the knife and Spike would be in the cage. An endless kaleidoscope of violence and blood. Always changing, always the same. She'd wake in the dead of night, shivering, sweating, and more often than not, screaming. Buffy and Dawn seemed to take turns comforting her. Crawling into the bed beside her, holding her as she trembled and shook with the horror behind her eyes. They never said anything the next morning.

Frustrated, Faith pulled the pillow over her head, trying to drown out all sound and light. She wanted to sleep but she was terrified of closing her eyes. Lose-lose situation. Everything she touched burned, everything she reached for was too far away. It all went to hell. She just wanted to rest. Was that too much to ask? A little peace and quiet didn't seem like too much. She just wanted to rest.

* * *

"It's a good change," Gage offered helpfully.

Spike stared into the mirror, still shocked at what he'd done. "You hate it."

"No really. I don't think it makes you look fat at all."

"Sod off."

"What does your hair have to do with grass?"

"What? No, it's-," Spike frowned, running a hand through his now platinum blond curls. "Fuck it, Gage. I don't have a bloody clue what it means. Just a phrase. Are you sure I don't look like a bleedin' idiot."

"Where do you get these colorful metaphors?" Gage took a seat on the toilet, poking at the packaging from the Do-It-At-Home bleach kit. "Maybe you should look into this past life thing." He held up his hands defensively when Spike glared at him. "Just an idea. I'm open to anything and if it's true then it could explain what the hell is going on with you. Maybe you've got something you need to fix. Could be the dreams are trying to let you in on a big conspiracy."

"Yeah, right. I was a vampire in my past life." Spike rolled his eyes and left the bathroom, his partner trailing after him.

"Okay, I'm not that open. But it could be symbolic."

"Ripping someone's throat with my bare teeth? What's that s'posed to symbolize?"

"You tell me. You're the big brain when it comes to the depths of the human mind." Gage shrugged and stretched out on the sofa in the living room. "And I still can't believe that you called me over here in the middle of my fucking date because you wanted to bleach your goddamn hair."

"I don't even remember buying the bleach. It was just there."

"Maybe you're possessed."

"You watch way too many movies." Spike headed to the kitchen, grabbing a six-pack out of the fridge. "Remind me to pick up some decent beer one of these days."

Gage frowned at him. "What are you talking about? This used to be your favorite."

"Bloody American beers. Can't stand most of 'em."

"Now I'm officially freaked out."

"What?"

"Listen to yourself, man. You've got to be channeling someone or some shit like that cause this ain't you. Where's your phone book?"

"Under the coffee table." Spike raised his eyebrows as his partner dug the tattered book out from under the furniture. "What're you lookin' for?"

"Psychics."

"What the hell for?"

"Someone in this town has to do that past life regression bullshit." Gage flipped through the pages, frowning intently as he read through the titles. "The hair, the language, the weird voices you're hearing. Here we go. We'll start at the top and head down the list."

"In whose spare time are we going to do this?"

"Might take awhile before we round up those kids from the convenience store and get one of 'em to canary. Maybe we'll have a break before the next corpse pops up. Come on. Take a few evenings, sacrifice a few dates. It'll be worth it if we can figure this out, right? We're detectives, for god's sake. This is what we do."

"And if I've killed people?" Spike asked quietly. "If the dreams are half right and I really killed those people. What then?"

"Past life, Spike. Key words, in the past."

Spike put down his beer, rubbing his face with his hands. "It feels so real."

The worst part of the dreams, the part he hadn't told Gage, was that he enjoyed killing his victims in his dreams. He savored their terror and their pain. God, whoever he was in those dreams wanted it. Every time he closed his eyes he saw their faces and heard the strange woman's voice. He'd thought that solving their last case would ease some of the stress that had to be causing the dreams.

They'd gone back to surveillance video at the convenience store and paid more attention to the group of rowdy teenagers who left just before the shooting. Sure enough, the outline of a gun could be seen in the waistband of a pair of jeans as one of the boys left the store. The clerk said the group came in regularly, which meant that they were probably local. Descriptions were circulating among the officers and juvenile department; it was only a matter of time until they reeled them in. Spike figured it had been an accident. Shooter had been showing off his gun to his friends when it had gone off and killed Caroline Milner. The boys had left the scene before the clerk had come out to see what happened and their first round of questioning four weeks ago had been focused on if he'd seen anyone talking to Caroline inside or outside the store. It explained the unusual trajectory, since the boyfriend was well over six feet and would have been holding the gun below the hip, not the most natural of firing positions. If the kids had already been in the car, it explained why no one had seen anyone approach Caroline's car and the shouting could have been the boys roughhousing or even the car stereo. He felt sorry for the kid who'd fired the shot and worse for the Milner family if it was a case of wrong place, wrong time. Intuitively he knew he was right. As much as he knew that something had happened to him, something had changed.

Either he was losing his mind or everything he had believed was wrong. If reincarnation was real, he had a past life filled with blood and murder. Maybe even the vampire part was true. He couldn't prove he was a vampire in his dreams, he just knew. The same way he had known to add Sweet N Low to the bleach to take the sting out and that the woman he kept hearing was important. And dangerous.

Gage touched his arm lightly. "Just try. Maybe we'll get lucky and someone can hypnotize you, make it go away."

"I hope so. I just want it to stop." Spike shook his head, playing with his hair absently. What would the guys think when he showed up with a new hair color? He frowned as his fingers brushed across the scar on his left eyebrow. "How'd I get this, Gage?"

"Asshole with brass knuckles in Queens. Spring break, senior year of college." Gage eyed him warily. "Why?"

"I keep getting these flashes. This girl. Asian, Chinese maybe. She's got a sword. Somehow I keep thinking that she gave it to me."

"Davis." Gage's voice lowered with concern. "We're starting down this list tomorrow and if we don't find anything, promise me you'll talk to Dr. Coleman. Or take a vacation. You're really scaring me."

Spike took a deep breath. "Sorry, man. I know I sound cracked. Believe me, I know."

"That's a start. They say all madmen think they're perfectly sane."

"It's gotta be stress, right? Or maybe all this psychic mumbo-jumbo has some truth to it. But there has to be a reason this is happening to me."

"My grandmother used to say that everything happens for a reason." Gage smiled, punching Spike's arm playfully. "And I'd never argue with Nana Matthews. She had the evil eye, I'm tellin' ya. Scared the bejesus outta all of us grandkids."

"Probably just need a vacation. Haven't had one five years." Spike rubbed his forehead wearily. "Get used to the stress level and before you know it, nervous breakdown starin' you full in the face. Happened to my dad once."

"What'd he do?"

"Mum packed us up and headed to the country. Drove up and down the Appalachians until he relaxed."

"Then that's what you've gotta do, man." Gage's hand came to rest lightly on Spike's shoulder. "After we check out a few of these quacks just for the hell of it. And if you really are seeing a past life, who knows? Write a book, get rich, retire. Raise Corgies and a few rug rats to bounce on your knee. Course, you'd have to actually find a woman willing to bear your children and that might be a stretch."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." He leaned back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. "Tell you what. Write down three of those nutcases and I'll tackle this first thing tomorrow."

"I'll take the next three." Gage scribbled down a list of addresses quickly, ripping the paper in half and handing the top to Spike. "We're the best damn team of detectives this city has ever seen. Nothing's gonna get past us, you know that."

"Yeah, yeah. Run off to your burrow and leave the crazy man to his own devices."

"See you tomorrow." Gage patted his shoulder once more before standing up and heading out.

Spike waited until the door had closed the sound of footsteps in the hallway faded into silence before he let out the breath he was holding. There was somewhere he needed to be. Elsewhere. Not here. Not in this place. He knew it in his bones that he wasn't where he was supposed to be. Boston felt wrong, all wrong. Closing his eyes tiredly, he stretched out on couch and tried to get comfortable. Something was coming. Something was brewing. Hell. Mouth of Hell. His thoughts scattered as he tried to grab onto them.

Hellmouth?

* * *

The hotel tea wasn't half bad. Maybe Iverson was desperate enough that he'd stopped caring about quality and was reaching out for any remembrance of home. Trying to get comfortable on the shaky mattress, he pulled the phone onto his lap and dialed in Rupert Giles' London phone number. It was four in the morning in England. Iverson didn't care.

"This had better be good," Giles growled into the phone, voice rough from sleep.

"Iverson here, Mr. Giles." Iverson didn't bother to apologize and resuming sipping his tea. Too watered down and little more than colored water, it was still miles ahead of the black acid he'd been drinking for the past few weeks. "There's a plane ticket back to Sunnydale waiting for you at Heathrow. Eight o'clock flight. You may want to arrange to have your stuff sent later as well."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

"You're being relocated to Sunnydale permanently."

"I don't suppose you could have told me this before I flew back," he said sardonically.

"I didn't know then. I've only just managed to hammer out the deal. You need to be there by Friday at the very least. That gives you four days to get your affairs in order." Iverson set his tea aside. "Here's what I've managed to negotiate. The government is setting up a research base in Sunnydale and they're planning on approaching the Slayers this Friday about regeneration possibilities."

"What?" The shout came through loud and clear even across the Atlantic.

"This is where you come in. I've convinced them that they need to go through the Council to get to the Slayers and that it would be detrimental for them to try otherwise. I have suggested you as the Council's official liaison between Sunnydale and Washington. Mr. Wyndam-Pryce will take responsibility for Cara and the Los Angeles branch. Right now, they're willing to cooperative and offer the Slayers whatever they wish. I want to make sure the goodwill is maintained."

"I've seen what they want, Iverson, and I can assure you that their good will is the least of our worries."

"I won't argue with you but I'm hoping that another Initiative can be avoided if we take the offensive." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "They're going to Sunnydale regardless of what we want and they're going to approach the Slayers with or without our input. If we can set up the Council to be a buffer between the government and the girls, we might be able to trap them in their own red tape."

"Why me?" Giles asked sourly.

"Because you won't be swayed or bribed to turn against the Slayers. I have no doubt that they will try."

"Is there anything else I should know about?"

"There will be an information packet waiting for you in Sunnydale and the military's ambassador will contact you midweek. I've done all I can to get the gears in motion. It's going to be played by ear from here on out."

"I'll be there." Giles' voice was heavy, tired, and the connection faded away with a series of clicks.

Iverson pushed the phone aside and stretched out on the bed, not bothering to undress or turn down the bedding. He was too exhausted to care about anything outside the pleasantly numb dream world beckoning to him. It had to work. It was his fault, the Council's fault, that all of this had happened and they had to make it right.


	34. Did I Dream?

**Did I Dream?**

Going back to Sunnydale had never been part of their long-range plans. He'd dismissed it as his past; long gone and buried with no possible motivation for return. There was nothing there for him except a few memories that weren't exactly pleasant, although he was surprised to note that the memories of Maggie Walsh and the Initiative hurt worse than the memories of Buffy. The Slayer had broken Riley Finn's heart, but it had been Maggie who had broken his trust and his blind faith in their government with her lies and her monstrous creation.

Sam's loving voice brought a smile to his face. "Penny for your thoughts."

"Nothing important." Riley stood up and took his three year old son, Aaron, from her arms, cradling him gently against his chest. "What are you up to, soldier?"

"Cookie." Chubby fingers held out a mashed chocolate chip cookie roughly the shape of Australia.

"Mmm." Riley took a bite, careful to avoid the fingers. "Did you make them yourself?"

"Mommy helped." Warm brown eyes ringed with heavy lashes gazed up at his mother adoringly.

"Just a little." Sam brushed at the flour patterns on her t-shirt, coaxing their son away from his father with the promise of the great outdoors. "Mommy and daddy need to talk for a few minutes. You be careful." Planting a quick kiss on the boy's dark hair, she ushered him through the patio door and pulled Riley toward the deck chairs so that she could keep one eye on Aaron.

"They grow up so fast." Riley mused as he settled onto the loveseat, wrapping his arms around Sam and holding her tightly.

"Too fast. Before you know it, he'll be fighting his own vampires." Snuggling against him, she took a deep breath. "When do we leave?"

"You don't have to come with me."

"What? You'll commute from here to Sunnydale, come home on weekends and holidays? Negative. No way."

"I know how much you love it here." He motioned to the lake in the distance and Mt. Shasta rising up into the blue sky several miles away.

"I could help with training, you know that. General Pascal knows that. He's offered to find a place for me."

"Sam. Please." Riley shook his head, trying to find the words to explain the myriad reasons he wanted her a few hundred miles from Sunnydale. The Hellmouth topped that list. It was the last place on Earth he would ever want to raise a family. Sam's first pregnancy had been hard enough for her and the doctors doubted it would get any easier this time around. Sick and miserable meant vulnerable and he wanted her safely tucked away from demons and monsters. Naturally, he didn't want to make the commute every weekend but it would be worth knowing that his family wasn't in danger.

"I'm not made of glass, Finn." The determined spark in her eyes told him that he wasn't going to convince her to back down on this. "Besides, if it's Operation Slayer Babies, you'll need a woman's input. One who knows the road through hell, so to speak." When he didn't respond she kept going. "Trust me when I tell you that Buffy and Faith are going to feel a lot better knowing that there's a woman on the inside working for them."

"I have no doubt you'd be an asset, Sam. Just worried about you and Aaron." He kissed her gently, pulling her head down to his shoulder and pretending just for a moment that they didn't have to leave the quiet town where they had built a home.

"Personally, I don't think there's a better place to raise him. In a town with a Slayer or two? There isn't a safer place in the world, Riley Finn." She smiled against his chest, hugging him tightly. "Now that we've settled it, I'm coming whether or not you like it, fill me in on the details."

"Sam." He groaned as he rubbed her shoulder affectionately.

"Come on. I'll give you the female perspective. All that testosterone? I'm sure you and the boys have no idea at all what to offer the Slayers."

"How could we possibly understand the female mind?" Riley grinned. "All right. The Head Watcher and General Pascal have spent weeks going over details and long-range plans but I think they've finally reached a compromise. The government wants more Slayers now. Yesterday would be better."

"That bothers you." Sam looked up at him with her patented therapist gaze.

"Of course it does. If it were up to Pascal, they'd set up a production line and clone Slayers. Rumor mill says that the President wants to place potential Slayers into Special Forces and the Secret Service." He shook his head tiredly, following his son as the boy enthusiastically but awkwardly kicked a ball back and forth across the grass. "But they haven't forgotten the Initiative and they don't want to go too far into untested technology without guaranteed results."

"Just speed things up a little. What do the Watchers think?"

"They want to give the Slayer lines a chance to regenerate naturally. Give Buffy, Faith, and the other one, time enough to have children."

"That bothers you too."

"Slayers don't exactly have the longest lifespan, Sam."

"But if they had help?"

"They could still die. Why do you think there are three of them? Both Buffy and Faith have died at least once." He leaned against the cushions with a heavy sigh. "It sounds heartless and cruel but maybe it's better if the next generation of Slayers were raised in non-slaying homes."

"You mean they want to take their children away from them?" She made no attempt to disguise the outrage in her voice.

"They don't want them to have children at all. Remove the ovaries, harvest the eggs. Fertilize and implant them into surrogate mothers so they could be raised as normal as possible."

"Normal?" Sam gave him a skeptical look. "You mean they'll just give them away to good homes and forget about them?"

"Of course not."

"My point exactly. They're going to be under a government microscope even before conception. What does it matter if they're away from their biological parents if they'll be treated the same?"

"Well," Riley squirmed a little. "If it was done artificially there would be other benefits."

Her eyes widened with horrified understanding. "They want to choose the fathers. Of course."

"You're surprised?"

"I shouldn't be. I should have known they'd turn it into a super-soldier breeding project. That is what they're aiming for, isn't it?"

"That would be the best option for Pascal." Riley brushed her hair back and kissed her forehead softly in an attempt to calm her. "But Iverson has convinced him that working with Slayers isn't the easiest thing in the world and I've backed him up on that aspect. Pascal thinks he's just as likely to get his four starred ass kicked if he pushes the wrong buttons. Especially with Faith."

"What are they going to do then?"

"With Iverson's help, we've arranged options for each Slayer individually. A little take and a little give on each side."

"I'm the Sunnydale liaison." He chuckled at the irony. "Since I have the most experience with Slayers and Sunnydale itself. Rupert Giles will be the Council's end and they'll be setting up a training circuit in the old Initiative facilities. The offer for Buffy is that she gets free rein to work with the men, train them about demons and the Hellmouth, teach them how to fight more effectively. It's a pretty package. Good money, good benefits. Especially maternity."

"What does she have to do?"

"Have as many children as she wants to naturally with considerable child rearing support from us and help keeping the Hellmouth safe and sound for the kids. As soon as she's ready, they'll remove the ovaries and get her the hormone replacement therapy she needs. If she's willing, of course. The surplus eggs will be implanted into pre-selected mothers and families."

Sam pulled a face. "That's disgusting."

"I know. But it's a good deal for Buffy and it may be the only way she'll live long enough to even have children."

"What about Faith?"

"They're not sure what to do with her. Considering her criminal record and history of mental instability, they want to observe her for a few years before they decide if they even want her in the gene pool." Riley ignored the tightening in his throat that seemed to accompany talking or thinking about Faith. "First, they're going to offer her a new identity and a job in one of our hunting squads. Iverson felt that was best suited to her temperament. The idea is to give her the opportunity to move around, taking out identified targets and doing some good in the world. Very well paid. If she's stable, they'll give her the same offer. As many children as she wants naturally."

"Before handing over her eggs."

"Sounds pretty callous when you say it that way."

"It is callous. It's ripping out the heart and soul of what it means to be a woman." She scowled out over the yard, taking deep breaths to calm down. "And the third?"

"The third is a bit of an enigma. No one knows what to offer her so they'll probably just ask her straight out if she'll do it."

"What?"

"She's been reconditioned." Riley loosened his grip on her arms, waiting for the inevitable explosion. "Class D behavioral modification."

Sam pulled away sharply. "Did we do that?" Her eyes flashed furiously and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the loveseat.

"The Council did."

"Bastards."

"Relax. We're hoping that once we get her in and run a few tests, we'll be able to reverse some of the conditioning. Then Pascal will draft a proposal for her offer. It will probably follow the same theme song as the other two. There's no rush with her though. She's barely eighteen." He pulled her gently back into his embrace and rocked her easily.

"I thought Slayers were younger than that when they were called?"

"Faith has lived a lot longer than most Slayers, so has Buffy, actually. Gave some of the potential Slayers a few years to grow up." The details of how a Slayer was called was a mystery even to the experts on Slayers and Iverson hadn't been able to explain why the third Slayer was one of the few to be called after their sixteenth birthday. It was still too young in Riley's mind.

"At least I was right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"You need me there. Someone has to make sure they're treated fairly and Pascal obviously has no idea how to deal with women."

"You don't think they'll take the deal?"

"They should throw it back in Pascal's face." She sighed before shaking her head and grudgingly admitting, "But you're right. It's probably their best option for having family at all."

"That's about where I stopped thinking too," he agreed sadly.

"We're really lucky, aren't we? To be normal, have a normal family."

"I know I'm the luckiest man in the world." Smiling, he held her tight and breathed in the comforting scent of the fabric softener she used. Despite his reservations, knowing that his family would be with him had taken a weight off of his shoulders. He would still worry about their safety but there was no reassurance, no solace, like coming home to his wife and child. Part of him hoped that the Slayers would take the deal so that they could know for themselves what it meant to be a parent, to hold a child and stare in wonder at such a miracle.

* * *

Running helped swallow up the pain in a burning that was physical and somehow, more bearable. Faith hadn't ever been into the track and field aspect of training before. Balance, power, precision. She'd done all that with her Watcher and used the weight room in prison. But it was nothing like the feel of the wind against her face and the sound of her shoes hitting the pavement, pounding out the stiffness and tension from her nightmares while it soothed the aching void inside her. Even though it was completely futile to run and run and never leave Sunnydale, it felt like progress and that was enough to get her out of bed in the morning and into her running shoes.

It also calmed her enough to be around people other than Buffy and Dawn, something she needed if they were going to hold a full Scooby meeting as soon as Giles arrived. Glancing at her borrowed watch, she decided that he would probably be tucked into the couch at the Summers home with a cup of tea by now and waiting for the rest of the gang to arrive. She slowed to a walk, giving herself more time too cool down and a few blocks to collect her thoughts.

Things were going to change. Faith didn't need Slayer senses to know something was brewing. The dark green army trucks and sleek black sedans with tinted windows might as well have lit up the military's arrival in neon. They were here and they weren't going to hide this time. It was strangely comforting that even though the boots and guns had set up shop in the old Initiative headquarters, they were cutting holes in the ground for new skylights and the entrances, although well guarded, were in plain sight of the entire town of Sunnydale. Under the campus had been closed off and construction had begun deeper into the hills and tunnels toward the outskirts of the city. Less risk of a curious student setting foot where they shouldn't be that way.

The Watchers were starting to arrive in rented cars and Faith knew that in two days time, she would be facing the New Council. What she wanted was to leave town and never look back. What she needed was a pair of strong hands to hold her and tell her it would be all right. Neither was really an option and Faith was pretty sure that despite Xander's new woman's diminutive size, she wouldn't take too kindly to any move Faith might make. Not that she wanted anything from Xander. She shuddered a little at the memory. She was still avoiding him. Maybe she always would. It was just too weird, him having a front row seat to Faith Gone Evil and having a shovel wielding vampire to thank for living long enough to tell about it. Ugly times, ugly memories. She tried to avoid thinking about it and ended up avoiding him.

Sunlight bounced brightly off of the top of Xander's silver sedan, parked at the curb behind Willow's Nissan. Giles would already be inside with the others. Her step slowed again until she was nearly crawling down the sidewalk. Buffy had left a flat of pink flowers waiting next to the front walk, her tools and gloves sitting patiently beside them until she returned to her gardening. Faith wondered if taking up a hobby would help her deal with the insanity of her life but the image of trying to crochet or plant flowers didn't seem relaxing. Frustrating as hell but not relaxing.

Finally unable to prolong the agony any longer, Faith took a deep, fortifying breath and started up the steps. The front door opened to the sound of voices and laughter, pulling at something sad and painful deep inside her. As hard as they tried to pull her into their world, she would never belong and it hurt just a little to know she'd always be outside looking in.

"Faith! How was your run?" Buffy smiled cheerfully, waving her into the living room where the rest were sitting with fresh tea, coffee, and what looked like a box of bagels.

"Hey y'all." Faith managed a twisted smile, noting the flash of unease in Giles' eyes and the strangely sad look from the man next to him.

"This is Clair Iverson. He's the Head Watcher. Have a bagel. We even have cream cheese, many flavors." Buffy was in full chipper mode and Faith caught the sympathetic smile from Willow as she winced, reaching for a poppy seed bagel.

"Since I don't have to buy donuts to talk to Jane anymore and Willow was complaining about her hips." Xander grinned as Willow smacked his shoulder playfully. "Besides, load up on the spread and it's twice as fattening anyway."

"Glad to know you're thinking of our figures." Faith was pleased that her voice didn't sound as strangled as it had for the past weeks. Tucking herself into one of the armchairs, she turned to Iverson and eyed him suspiciously. "You're not here to kill me this time, right?"

"Of course not." Iverson didn't seem ruffled by the question and reached out to shake her hand firmly. "Pleased to finally meet you, Faith. I had the pleasure of meeting a friend of yours just before I left England."

She frowned, trying to think of anyone she knew in England. Actually, trying to think of anyone she considered a friend was easier since it was pretty short list.

"Goes by the name of Verek. I don't suppose you know what type of demon he is." His smile was a little more calculated this time and Faith recognized the subtle maneuverings of the game.

"Peaceful. That's all he told me. Works with portals and books. Well, before they blew up his bookstore anyhow." Faith shrugged and picked at her bagel absently. "Haven't had much luck with trusting humans so a demon's no problem in my book."

"Yes, I can see where you would be wary."

"You would." Faith turned her head to the side and smiled mockingly. "Seeing as how you sent Psycho Slayer here to kill everyone."

"Faith, that was the former Head Watcher." Giles intervened carefully.

"It's all right, Rupert. She wasn't here for my previous visit and I expected her to desire an explanation of sorts." Iverson relaxed into the couch, holding his teacup level. "Our goal, or at least my goal, with Cara and the other potentials was to prevent them from feeling the pain and the abandonment that you felt growing up. Some of them were pulled out of atrocious situations. Homes where they were neglected, abused, all but destroyed. We just wanted to help."

"Help," Faith parroted with disbelief, shaking his words away with a shrug. "Can't really say much. I haven't met her. But it doesn't sound like your plan worked."

"Do they ever?" There was a twinkle of humor in the man's eyes. "The best laid plans are simply that, plans. We couldn't know that Spike would kill you and bring you back to life. We couldn't know that he would beat Cara and that Buffy would send her home. And we couldn't know that she wouldn't come home. As for the wisdom of our plans. Perhaps we were wrong but we had to try. We always have to try."

"Whatever." She turned away, focusing on chewing the heavy bread.

"Well. Now that everyone's clear that no one's here to kill anyone." Xander stood up with a smile. "Willow and I have a surprise for everyone. Will?"

"Yeah. A surprise." Willow nodded, standing up at his side. "Cause you know that when vampires go poof...they...well, they go poof. All dusty and nothing left."

"Actually," Buffy interrupted, bagel halfway to her lips. "Vampire dust is great fertilizer. I put it on the flower beds." Surprised eyes stared at her and she laughed a little nervously. "Just so you know."

"I'm not gonna ask how you get vamp dust for the flower beds."

"She takes a tarp on patrol." Dawn spoke up with a mischievous grin. "I think she gets them to stand on it and then she stakes them. What? I've seen you coming home with it. Oh, and when there's a nest, she takes a bucket and a broom."

Xander was trying hard not to laugh. "The point we were trying to make is that they don't exactly leave behind something to bury and granted, there aren't a lot of vampires you'd want to remember at all but there's an exception to every rule, right? So Will and I have been trying to come up with the perfect memorial for a particular vamp and we finally decided on this one." With a flourish, he motioned to Willow and she pulled out a photograph of a large stone urn. "I had it put in next to Joyce's headstone and I figured we could take a scenic tour next if everyone's up to it."

Faith stayed back, waiting for the ohhs and ahhs to calm down before she uncurled enough to take the photograph from Willow's hands. It was almost two feet tall in cream and black marble, a classic hourglass shape. The top opening was barely covered by the beginning of what was probably a lush, flowering plant. In the bright light of the photograph, she could see the engraving on the wide center of the urn. William. Forever In Our Hearts.

"It's a little cheesy." Willow gnawed at her lower lip nervously. "It was pretty late when Xander and I were looking through the listings. But we figured everyone who saves the world should have something other than dust to show for it."

Almost choking on a piece of her bagel, Faith coughed and climbed out of the chair, handing the photo back to Willow and heading for the front door. "I'll meet you there," she called over her shoulder.

"Don't you want a ride?" Buffy asked her, a step behind.

"I'll walk." What she meant was that she would run.

Taking off across the lawn, Faith pushed herself into a hard sprint, trying to leave the aching in her heart behind at the Summers house. It meant something that they had done it. It meant everything that they had done it. She wasn't sure what hurt the most, the reminder of him or that they cared enough to do something like this. Tearing down the sidewalk, she lept garbage cans and hedges as she twisted through the streets to the cemetery where Joyce was laid to rest. She'd only been there once on patrol with Buffy but she remembered it.

Sure enough, she recognized the familiar headstone and next to it was the urn. Heart pounding and gasping for air, she sunk to the lawn in front of the urn and stared at it for a long time. The flowers were closed tightly despite the bright sun but looked as though they would be white when they unfurled among the thick, dark leaves. Plucking a small plastic flag from the dirt, she smiled as she read that it was a night blooming plant. Xander and Willow had outdone themselves. With a smile, she noted that the Is were shaped like railroad spikes and as soon as she had caught her breath she began to laugh. They would probably think she'd lost her mind when they arrived to find her rolling on the grass with laughter.

The stone was cold beneath her fingers. He had never been cold. Cool, yes. Cold, never. Here it was. A monument to Spike. The only physical reminder except for the twin leather jackets belonging to Buffy and Dawn and a few photographs. This was it. All that was left. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Tracing his name again, she wondered what would be left of her after she was gone. Would she even warrant an urn with her name on it? Would there be anyone left behind to mourn her?

Faith stretched out on the freshly dewed lawn, fingers trailing over the base of the urn as she watched a ladybug crawl through the grass. The morning sunlight was warm on her shoulders and legs, comforting. She wondered if it would feel strange to have a human lover again. Startled, she shook away the thought. Not ready. Not yet. Maybe she would never be ready to find another man. To let go of the past long enough to move on. It was one of the reasons she'd been so adamant about the government not getting any children from her. She wasn't ready for the sex. Maybe not for a very long time. Maybe not ever.

Her breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes tightly against the sudden pricking of tears. For the first time since she'd gotten back, they refused to acknowledge her attempts to quell them and she turned her face toward the earth as they flooded her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Shuddering, sobbing with both pain and relief, she tightened into a ball and willed the sun to melt the ice inside her heart. She didn't want to be alone forever.

* * *

Glass sparkled, the marble floor sparkled, the woman her Watcher hated sparkled. Cara followed them, keeping quiet and letting her eyes roam around the spacious lobby of the building. Cameras, guards. She picked out at least two plain-clothes guards, one of which was only questionably human and took note of the nervous glances directed at Lilah Morgan. The casual banter between Lilah and Wesley had fallen on confused ears as she tried to straighten out the twisted synopsis of their history that Fred had given her. It was clear that whatever electricity had been between the two hadn't ceased to sizzle even after Lilah's death and Wesley's return to the dating circuit. Cara hadn't asked what a dating circuit was, she felt ridiculous enough with all of the questions she had already posed to the physicist.

She knew that something had happened to make Wesley hate Lilah passionately and he had warned Cara not to trust anyone within the walls of Wolfram and Hart's main office. If they attempted to do anything she wasn't comfortable with, he gave her complete permission to break bones and even kill if she had to. Just get out, he had said. He would be waiting for her in the third floor library. Since Lilah wanted to know what the Watchers had done almost as much as Wesley did, it was possible that Cara wasn't in any danger but he had cautioned her to stay sharp.

"Alright." Lilah's polished voice cut into Cara's study of the lobby. "We'll just get you down to observation and see what we can do about helping you."

Wesley's eyes warned her silently and his fingers brushed against her arm as he motioned for her to follow the woman into an elevator. "Good luck."

Cara watched him until the doors had closed, memorizing the tension in his shoulders and the concerned set of his jaw. Once alone with the strange woman who was dead but not a ghost, she straightened her shoulders and took note of the elevator's construction. There were two columns of buttons and more floors than she had remembered counting outside the building. Frowning, she touched the empty space at the top of the columns and wondered if there was supposed to be another button to maintain the symmetry of the column design.

"Good instincts." Lilah was smiling. "How does it feel being one of the three remaining Slayers?"

"The same," Cara answered simply. Nothing had changed for her.

"Must be terrible knowing that your family is dead. Since they carried the Slayer genes as well."

She tipped her head slightly to the right, as though it would make more sense if she looked at Lilah sideways. "My family."

"Two sisters and a brother." Lilah opened the folder in her hands and held out a picture of a smiling family.

Cara stared down at the photograph, almost not recognizing her own face in the scene. A tall man stood at her side, one hand on her shoulder and another around a younger girl. To the right was an elegant woman with dark brown eyes and a touch of gray in her dark hair. Cara herself was in the center, her hair long and falling over her shoulders in waves. The two girls looked very similar and the boy, while quite a bit younger, had a thick mop of chestnut hair that matched the rest of the family. Her fingers trembled a little as she touched the face on the piece of paper. She had a family. Like Buffy, like the family in Ohio. She had two sisters and a brother. Had. They were dead. She hadn't been able to save them, hadn't know to even try. Handing the photo back to Lilah, she focused on the display above her, watching as it ticked away numbers on their journey.

"You probably don't remember much about them." Lilah looked pleased with herself. "Or anything at all if Lorne was right about you."

"It doesn't matter," Cara answered, her voice sharp and biting in spite of her attempts to keep control. She didn't remember and it seemed strange for a Slayer to have a family. If Buffy wasn't unusual, if all Slayers had families then how could she be sure the rest of the Council's training wasn't a lie?

"You're right. It doesn't matter. Nothing in this world really does. But mankind keeps holding on." She paused for a moment, searching through her handbag. "I'll let you in on a secret, just between us girls. Life may not matter when you're alive but it can look pretty damn good after you're dead."

Cara felt a sting in left her arm and instinctively reached for the wound. Muscles began to seize almost immediately and she felt the numbness spread through her body as her heart pumped the toxin through her arteries. Stumbling, she tried to steady herself against the wall as her knees buckled. Crumpled on the elevator floor, she stared up at Lilah hatefully. With each passing second, she could feel all strength draining from her limbs until they were heavier than lead and entirely unresponsive.

"Just a really good muscle relaxant, Slayer." Lilah tucked the injection gun back into her bag. "You'll be wide awake the whole time but unable to move or call out. We couldn't risk not having your complete cooperation for such a sensitive procedure."

The doors whispered as they opened and Cara watched two men in white lab coats roll a gurney into the elevator. They picked her up roughly and strapped her down at her wrists, ankles, chest, and thighs. She could only stare upward as rows of fluorescent lights passed through her line of sight. Fighting against the chemicals in her blood, she tried to move. Anything. Her eyelids got heavier and finally closed, blocking out the light and leaving her dependent on her remaining senses. The fabric was rough against her skin and she could hear the wheels slipping against the floor. When the motion stopped, she could feel people around her accompanied by the soft click of metal against metal. Voices in the background and the hum of electrical equipment.

"It's for your own good, of course. Angel's the boss and when he says jump, we say how high." Lilah's bitter voice caught her undivided attention. "And we've got to do something about those scars and the butch haircut. Aren't you lucky to have such influential friends?"

Cara's skin began to tingle with the feeling of a thousand crawling insects and her scalp burned. A low, rasping voice was muttering in a language she recognized as demonic but didn't understand. Something tugged her hair and she wished her eyes would open so that she could see her attacker. Wished she could move her hands and break loose from the straps. Wished she knew how to kill Lilah Morgan. Fred had mentioned a contract, binding even after death. The tingling continued, spreading down her arms and legs until her whole body felt as though she'd been struck by lightning.

"Let's see what's in that brain of yours." A new voice. Male. Nasal. Metal clamped over her forehead and circled her skull. She could vaguely feel the prick and pressure on her arm that could have been an IV similar to the one she'd had in the hospital in Ohio. Cold plastic circles were pressed against her temples and chest beneath the t-shirt, sticking to her skin. More voices, more chanting, more whispers she didn't understand. Was she supposed to be frightened? Was this part of the deal to help her? When should she get worried? Slayer instinct had kicked into overdrive and regardless of her languid muscles, she was beginning to feel the tension. She couldn't move, couldn't fight back. All she could do was listen and wait.

"You were right, Ms. Morgan. She's almost a clean slate."

"What about past memories?"

"They're completely submerged and disassociated. I can extract them entirely or I can leave them undisturbed."

"Extract them. I don't want to take any chances."

"Very well. Do you want to keep the rest?"

"I've been told she's not all that different from me." Lilah was nearly purring with excitement. "Resourceful. Ruthless."

"Abstract concepts like mercy and compassion are typically the last to be learned. I don't think she's reached that point yet. You want to keep the groundwork then?"

"Of course. I'll need her training if I'm going to be a Slayer." The woman's laughter sent a shiver of fear through Cara.

"I'll get started then. Removing her old memories will probably take an hour."

"What do you need from me?"

"We've got everything we need. Congratulations, Ms. Morgan. I think you'll be very happy with our work."

"I'm sure I will." A cold hand closed around Cara's arm, stroking her skin softly. "Before I leave you in the capable hands of the doctors, I'll explain what's going to happen. I'm sure you'll feel much better. Actually, you won't feel anything at all after we're done because, well, you won't be you anymore. You'll be me. But I'm getting ahead of myself." Metal sliding against ceramic tile screeched up from the floor and Cara felt Lilah move closer, sitting beside her. "Miss Burkle, Fred as you know her, designed this program as a treatment for Alzheimer's. The idea is to store memories, emotions, knowledge, everything that makes a person who they are; and when the brain starts to degrade, it can be rewired. Neural pathways reburned and memory restored. What was lost is now found. We've had amazing results in the trial phase. Congratulations on being our first patient in for a complete overhaul."

There was a long pause, Cara strained to hear what was happening around her. When Lilah began to speak again, her voice was soft and almost sad. "It used to be different, you know. Wesley and I. He tried so hard to save me, to give me peace. Again and again he tried. Always failed, of course, or I wouldn't still be here. A glorified secretary for Angel and the rest of them. I run their errands, make sure everything is working smoothly so that they can operate Wolfram and Hart from that pathetic warehouse. When they need equipment, security, anything at all. Lilah comes running. New windows, help with a case. They still love all that detective work and demon hunting." Cara wanted to pull away from the woman's touch, away from her cold, dead fingers.

"It was perfect before Cordelia woke up. I think it might have worked out between Wes and I, well, if it weren't for the being dead part. But I know he loved me. I don't know when he stopped." More silence. "But it can be perfect again. I've seen the way he looks at you. You're precious to him. You're his Slayer. I can work with that, turn it into something more. In time. Not as Lilah Morgan because he's convinced himself that she stands for all of his past failures. But what he admires in you is what he used to admire in me. I know him and he may fret and worry about your lack of mercy or whatever it is but when he looks at you he sees someone strong, powerful. I can see it. And when your body is mine, I'll see it again."

Cara heard Lilah retreat and felt the man brush past her, adjusting the probes around her head and attaching a few more. She could hear the faint sound of cables brushing together and a series of beeps. More whispering in the unknown language. In her mind's eye, she saw the woman from the photograph smiling and laughing as she waved. Images flashed by her as she tried to grab hold of them, tried to understand why something inside her cried out against losing them. Why it hurt to have them ripped from the depths of her mind where they had been buried. Faces, names, voices came floating back and then they were gone. Paul, Maria, Julie. Brother, sisters. There had been a golden retriever name Bitty because she'd been the runt of the litter. The first day she'd come to the Academy and met the other girls just like her. The first day she'd known that she wasn't alone in the world. She'd had long hair then and had been anxious to learn everything they could teach her about the terrifying new world she had seen. Training sessions where the past had gradually faded away into the dark and the letters from home had become meaningless before they stopped altogether.

Impotently, she raged against the destruction of the past she hadn't known and the family she would never see again. Hot tears slipped from the corner of her eyes as she realized that she could have been like Buffy, could have belonged and understood the world. Everything she had been trying so hard to make fit, to find the pieces and finish the puzzle. A sister to braid her hair and make brownies with. Her mother made banana cream pies. She'd had a mother. A mother who had loved her. Breath caught in her throat and the soft whimper reached her ears.

"Even the demons cry. They cling to the past so fiercely," the man said softly to whoever else was in the room and a clammy hand stroked her cheek.

"Every last one. She will be you, Ms. Morgan. The last step is to merge your essence, your consciousness with her body."

Cara felt the man fiddle with some of the probes, tensed with anticipation and fear of the unknown. It started slowly. Memories that weren't hers unfolded behind her eyelids like a movie playing through her mind. She pulled away from them, horrified and fascinated as she saw herself through Lilah's eyes. Yesterday. Felt the strange mixture of regret, anger, and longing as Wesley bent his head over a book and the flash of jealousy as he smiled toward Cara. The day before. She watched as Lilah moved through the offices and hallways of Wolfram and Hart, filed memos, arranged for the window installation at Angel Investigations, and stared long and hard out the window at the city around her. Cara saw it as though it was through her own eyes, but held fast to the conviction that they weren't her memories. No more real than a dream.

A younger voice, also male, thundered through the darkness. "Something's wrong."

"It doesn't take root instantly. Like a donated organ, the mind fights against memories that don't belong but eventually it will give up and accept the change." The doctor's voice sounded hollow, as if it was bouncing through a tube somewhere that led to the outside world.

She noticed that she had regained some control over her eyelids, enough to close them tightly against the chaos in her mind. Fingers stretched just slightly and she felt the pull of the IV needle against the back of her hand. Conjuring up the images of Sunnydale, of Buffy and Xander, she focused on those and ignored the parade of Lilah. In her mind's eye, she traced the pattern etched on her Xander Harris Special, so intimate with the twists and curves that she could reproduce it without effort. If she concentrated hard enough, she could feel the grooved wood beneath her fingertip.

"It's not taking." The doctor sounded puzzled. "She's fighting it."

"That's not possible."

"Increase the dosage."

Twisting her wrist was the most movement she could obtain but it was enough to jostle the needle loose, surgical tape giving millimeter by millimeter as she rocked her hand from side to side almost imperceptibly. Her skin stung as the needle slipped out of the vein, dripping onto her hand as the medication continued to flow. The muttering had increased to a constant buzz in her ears and she struggled to keep focused on her own memories, on what was real. Forcing down the images of Angel, of Wesley, and the seemingly endless stream of information about Wolfram and Hart, she pulled out one of the vague memories of her training at the Academy. It was hazy and fragmented, one of the last that had been deemed valuable enough to keep, but it held the information she needed about pushing all thought out of her mind. Anything but the fight. Everything but the Slayer.

Her thumb caught against the wrist restraint. She kept pulling. They weren't as tight as they should have been to hold a Slayer. Idiots. Vaguely she recognized that some of the rage and hate seeping into her wasn't her own but she didn't care. Anger was power when there was nothing else left. Leather slipped over her skin, muscles stiff and heavy. Testing her eyelids, she found that she could open them just enough to let the light in. There was movement behind her and to the left. Someone was typing. Lilah was on the right, silk stockings whispering as one leg bounced restlessly. For a moment, the new memories crashed to the forefront as Cara watched her relationship with Wesley turn sour, fascinated as time sped backwards and she saw the group join Wolfram and Hart. Wesley's attempt to break her contract, her decapitation and her death. Cordelia had killed Lilah? That didn't make any sense. Rain of fire. The memories before were strangely happy. Witty banter, sex, Wesley. Something new for Lilah. Emotion. Cara struggled to push them away again and turned her focus back to freeing herself.

Energy trickled into her limbs and Lilah started humming. Killing the bitch for good was definitely a future goal. The doctors were whispering something in the background and she heard Lilah's shoes click as the woman got to her feet.

"What do you mean, it's not working?" Lilah demanded.

"It may take longer than we thought," the doctor soothed. "Since she's been conditioned before she has a greater resistance to any sort of neural transfer. It will work but we don't want to take up too much of your valuable time."

Lilah sighed. "You're right. Call me when she's ready."

"Very well."

Cara inched her hand out of the restraint, able to open her eyes almost completely for brief periods of time before they became too heavy again. Everything was white and gray, with heavy hatch marks between the ceiling tiles and the gleam of polished glass and flooring. Without the constant stream of chemicals pouring into her blood, the effects of the muscle relaxant were fading away. She ignored Lilah's rise through the corporate ladder of the law firm, her encounters with Angel, and the excitement over being accepted into one of the most prestigious firms in the dimension. Footsteps sounded from several feet away and she pulled her other hand through the restraint carefully. Glancing down, she watched her hands move shakily over her stomach toward the buckle of the strap across her chest. Fabric slipped, caught, and tugged free as she unhooked the metal clasp. She sat up and reached for the headband simultaneously. Fumbling with the strap over her thighs, she yanked on the probes around her skull with her right hand, wincing as she pulled the needles out of the skin at her temples. The flood of memories stopped.

"Hey!" One of the men behind her shouted as she reached for her ankles.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, trying to push her down again. Grabbing hold of the IV needle that had been in her hand, she twisted around and sunk it into soft flesh under his chin. Screaming and clutching his neck, the doctor stumbled away and she finished unbuckling the restraints on her ankles. Her knees almost gave way as she swung her legs off of the gurney and cautiously stood up. The second man was scrambling away from her, avoiding the trio of demons in long maroon cloaks who were chanting in the corner. Blood was dripping down the sides of her face but she ignored it as she staggered toward the escaping man, grabbing his shoulders and hurling him awkwardly back toward the demons. The muttering faded away as the demon trio disappeared and he crashed to the floor, staring up at her with wide, terrified eyes.

Leaving him cowering in the corner, she kept one hand on the wall as she limped through the white hallways to the elevator. She knew where to go. Knew every nook and cranny of Wolfram and Hart, every room, every floor, where to look for the escape tunnels, and where to find all its dirtiest secrets. All she wanted was the third floor supply closet. Almost sinking to the floor as the elevator doors closed, she concentrated on her breathing and tried to sort through the disorder in her brain. Numbly, she wondered if it would have been better to let Lilah take her body. Had stopping the transfer midway caused more damage? Was she broken even more rather than fixed? The world didn't seem to make any more sense now than it had before. As the memories began to take root, she noticed that they were distant, dream-like. Someone else's life. Someone else's history. But the emotions felt real. Hate, pain, love, fear, anger. They were all real and they all had names.

Gripping the doorway, she blinked against the change of lighting as the elevator dinged her arrival on the third floor. The first time she had staked a vampire; fear and excitement at the same time. The strange fuzzy feeling at the Welcome party Buffy and Dawn had given her was pleasure. Tracking the vampire packs was determination. Realization of her near murder of Xander Harris and the rest of the Sunnydale group. Guilt. Anger toward the Council. She almost laughed as the pieces finally began to fall into place and she understood. For the first time in her own memory, she understood.

It wasn't pretty.

The world was bright and harsh and painful. People were cruel and vicious. They lied, cheated, stole, murdered. Staggering under the weight of Lilah's sins, Cara pulled herself down the hallway into the storage closet, searching out the passageway to the escape tunnels. Just get out. Just go. Out and away from the screaming in her head before her own voice joined the chorus of guilt and pain. Down into the darkness, the belly of the beast, into the shadow land where atrocities were buried and ignored. Where mankind hid behind justice and twisted the law to suit their own purposes, to further themselves and those who lived in the darkness with them.

Clutching at her head, as though it would stop the endless parade of wrong and worse, she was startled to see long dark hair fall down to frame her face. In the dim light, she stared at her arms and the smooth, unscarred skin that had been marred with demon souvenirs hours earlier. Lilah had taken her past. The bitch had taken her trophies, her only record of battles won and demons killed. The only thing that had been real to Cara. Her feet kept moving because they didn't know what else to do. She didn't know what to do. Everywhere she turned, she saw Lilah. And Wesley. Wesley's face, his eyes, burning and hard with pain and fury. She knew. Knew what he had done, what Angel had tried to do. She knew it all. The last seven years since Angel had set foot in Los Angeles and rewrote the age-old game between good and evil. She knew about Darla and Connor. And Jasmine. She could see it. All of it.

It made her sick.

The lies. The pain. The world around her that she had never understood and now that she did, she wanted to go back, crawl into blissful ignorance where she was just a Slayer and all that mattered was the death toll she left behind. Concrete cracked, splintered, and screeched as her fist plowed into the wall of the tunnel. She'd believed that were people worth protecting, that there was such a thing as innocents. No such creature lived on this planet, breathed the air, and walked on two human legs. There was no innocence. Only lies. Only rage and hate. It was all they deserved.

She didn't recognize the anguished screaming as her own until she ran out of breath and had to inhale, raging into the tunnel for the teeming, ugly, grubby little insects called human beings. How had she thought they were worth saving? One girl or three against the evil, undead things that never stopped coming. It had seemed strangely futile before and now that she had the depths of Wolfram and Hart's depravity in her head, she knew it was worse than that. Futile didn't come close to describing the irony of one Slayer against untold numbers, untold evil. She was holding the tide at low, turning back time, the weight of the world on her shoulders and it would only get heavier with every monster she killed.

Trembling with exhaustion and the after effects of the chemicals in her blood, she fumbled through the darkness with blank, unseeing eyes. Memories flitted through her mind's eye and she struggled to label them. Hers. Not hers. Cara's. Lilah's. Real. Illusion. She couldn't tell them apart, they blurred and spread together until she couldn't tell where one ended and the next began. Moving was better than standing still, fighting was better than letting go.

Light burned into her eyes painfully as she pulled herself out of the tunnels and into the sun. The whole world was bathed in sunlight, in the warm comfort of energy as though it deserved to flaunt its hypocrisy to the heavens themselves. For long, quiet minutes, she watched the cars rolling down the street at the end of the alley she had crawled up into. Cars full of people oblivious to the world that crept around them when the night came and unaware of the pain they caused each other. Trapped in their own minds, their own worlds. They worried about the neighbor's dog. They worried about bushes dropping berries.

Envy hung heavy in her chest and filled her throat with bitterness. But it wasn't hers. It was Lilah's. Envy for every living being who didn't know the truth, who didn't see the monsters under the bed, for every soul that wasn't bound to a contract by blood and power. Trapped forever in an existence that was one more vicious cycle of have and have not. Coming back from the Hell had cost Lilah everything she had never dared hope for and all she had valued. She signed the contract because she thought Wolfram and Hart could give her the world, but she hadn't realized until it was too late that the world around her didn't contain a clause for the one thing she wanted. To be with him. The attachment had been unexpected and undesirable at first, just a job, just a roll in the hay to sway Wesley over to the dark side. She tried to taint him only to find herself contaminated and even after it was long over and she was dead, it hurt to see the disdain and the bitterness in his eyes.

Cara shook the thoughts away, concentrating on taking one step at a time. The roar of engines was deafening in her already ringing ears, the world a constant writhing mass of colors and shapes. She kept walking, holding back, afraid that any moment she would break into a run and never stop, never look back until she reached the ends of the world. For the first time, she really looked at the people around her. Really saw them. Faces, eyes, hands, arms, feet. She recognized shoes, handbags. Knew the names of the designers and could guess income ranges for every person she saw. No longer just innocents. They had names, families, bank accounts, homes, and goldfish. They took their children to day care centers and parents to nursing homes. They wept, bled, bruised, and laughed just like every other human being on the planet. Except her. What was left for her now?

She could be a Slayer. Spend endless nights and endless days fighting a battle that could never be won. Or she could return to Wolfram and Hart to finish the neural transfer and cease to be Cara. She could allow Lilah to take over her body and her life entirely. Disappear into the crowd around her and find her own way. Wesley and the others would be looking for her. Lilah and the entirety of Wolfram and Hart would be searching as well. It was only a matter of time before one of them found her and she didn't know what would happen then. Would they take her back and try to undo what Lilah had done or would they try to finish it?

Blinking against the light, she retreated to the alley again, curling up against the wall behind a pile of crates to hide from passing glances. Lilah wouldn't give up. Wesley would be furious. And they would all be afraid of her because now her mind held all of their darkest secrets and she knew that they already considered her on the short side of sanity. For all their kindness and all their attempts to help her, they were still afraid of what would happen if she turned against them. Wolfram and Hart couldn't let her just slip away with Lilah's knowledge. The world was falling apart and there was nothing Cara could do to stop it.

She closed her eyes tightly to block out the colors and lights of a world in which she belonged less and less with every passing day. It was all she could to do to huddle against the brick of the building next to her and wait for them to find her. They would drag her out of the alley and finish what they had started. Eventually there would be nothing of Cara Sewell left but a face and a name in Lilah's desk drawer. Her hair, now miraculously long, spilled over her bare arms and down her back. From Lilah's memories, she knew that the Council had stripped away her family and they had been dead to Cara long before being murdered. She could see the pictures in her mind, the bits and pieces and random facts that Lilah had been able to discover about the third Slayer. It was all that was left of her. The real her. Whoever that was.

She didn't know who she was. Hadn't even known to ask the question until Buffy had untied her and let her go. Her head rose with a snap and her eyes flew open. Mercy. Buffy Summers had shown her mercy. The definition of mercy had always been filed away in her brain but she had never felt it before, never really understood what it meant. Slayers weren't built for pity or compassion and she had heard Wesley tell Angel that she had none, that she didn't even understand what it was. Lilah didn't have the capacity for mercy but she knew what it was and she could see through Lilah's eyes, watching as Angel and Wesley fought for their friends and each other. As Angel tried to save his son, only to be too late. The whole drama of humanity had played out for Lilah again and again in the microcosm of a souled vampire's world. If she didn't think too hard, if she just let the memories circle and land in her mind, she could almost piece them together and push them into a meaningful pattern.

Rubbing the heels of her palms against her eyes, she fought back the confusion. It had to make sense. She had to make it make sense. All the pieces were there plus a few more compliments of Ms. Morgan and now she just had to fit them together into a coherent picture. Somehow. Head aching with the Herculean effort of forcing conflicting timelines and memories into a semblance of order, she buried her face in her arms again, letting the drape of her hair shield her from the outside world. Deep down, she knew she was lost and she knew that the damage done to her psyche was irreversible and probably more than she could handle. But she had to fight. She was a Slayer, a warrior, and war was all that was real in this world.

* * *

"Crime scene here yet?" The latex gloves snapped as Spike pulled them on, stepping under the yellow tape and following the younger officer into the warehouse.

"Photographer's here. Rest of the unit is about fifteen minutes out." He was tall, thin as a reed, and a little green around the edges.

"Where's your partner?" Gage glanced around the dark rooms.

"Out back. Throwing up," the officer answered softly, motioned them toward the back room. "We haven't touched anything but the light switch. I'll let you know when crime scene gets here."

"Thanks." Spike raised one eyebrow toward his partner and headed to the only lighted room in the building. Occasionally, the bright flash of the photographer's camera spilled out through the doors and windows of the inner office.

"Took in a load of furniture this afternoon." Gage frowned at the shipping log in his hands. "Who called it in?"

"Night manager coming to lock up." Spike pulled out the notes he'd gotten from the arriving officer, amazed that the rookie had been with it enough to do that. "They've got him holed up for us when we're ready." They stepped through the doorway and Spike heard Gage nearly loose his grip on the heavy binder.

"My God," Gage breathed.

Spike was rooted to the spot, unable to move his legs. Three bodies lay spread out on the floor funeral style, their hands clasped over their chests and eyes staring upward peacefully. Blood spattered their clothing and the right side of their necks had been ripped open in two jagged wounds. He could hear the blood pounding in his chest as he finally jerked his feet from the floor and stepped around the first body. It always took him once around the room to actually look at the faces of the dead.

"Hey guys. I've found six so far." The photographer was a petite woman with gunmetal gray hair and a cast iron stomach. She was gravely chewing her gum as she continued to snap pictures of the room. "Two more in the back and one between the desks."

Nodding, Spike motioned for Gage to take the right side of the room while he took the left. Careful not to touch anything, he slowly began the sweep of the room looking for anything that could potentially help them discover who had killed these people. He was almost too dazed by the sight and the nagging feeling of familiarity tugging at the back of his mind to actually see the world around him. Forcing himself to focus, he jotted down anything that seemed out of place, taking notes of the items covering the desktops and where the furniture was situated. Drawing a diagram quickly, he marked each garbage can and made a note to sift through the contents.

"Guy in a suit. Woman dressed like a cheap hooker." Gage shook his head, bending over one of the bodies and checking the suit's pockets with the tip of a pen. "What are they all doing here? Can't imagine them all knowin' each other."

Spike knelt at the threshold to the second door of the office, noting a trail of blood on the doorframe and a few drops outside the office. Scuff marks on the wooden walkway. Perhaps something or someone being dragged. "Maybe dumped here. Back door was forced. Dead bolt ripped clear through the wood." Motioning to the damaged door, he tested the hinges and found them barely hanging on. He moved back into the office and started his second walk through. This time he would have to look at the bodies.

The first face sent adrenaline rocketing through his veins and he felt his face pale in spite of the racing of his heart. He knew that face. Had seen it in his dreams night after night. It was always the same, the man pleading for his life before he sunk his teeth into the man's throat and drained him dry. Clenching his teeth tightly, Spike checked the man's neck. He almost passed out when he saw what could have been bite marks in the man's flesh. Next victim. Same memories, a woman this time, trying to run away and sobbing. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks and he couldn't bring himself to look at her neck. He knew what he would find.

"Davis? You alright?" Gage whispered softly at his side.

Spike shook his head slowly, hands shaking as he stood up, searching the room again. "There's one more. A little girl about ten. Brown hair."

"How do you know?"

"I just know." Spike pulled away and continued canvassing the room.

Gage touched his arm gently, motioning upward. "Spike."

The little girl had been tied to one of the overhead support beams, her head angling unnaturally to the side and a small porcelain doll strapped to her chest with a blind fold over its eyes. They were all there. Every victim from his dreams the past week was in that office. Dead. And he couldn't say for sure that he hadn't killed them.

_Miss Edith speaks out of turn. She's a bad example and will have no cakes today._

"Spike? Spike? You okay, man?"

Spike shook the voice away, still transfixed by the sight above them. "We'll have to take her down last."

"Who's Miss Edith?" Gage was watching him with concern.

"No one. It's nothing." Spike shook it away.

"You said, Miss Edith. Is that the girl? How did you know there was a little girl?"

"Now you're smoking?" Gage shut the door behind him.

"Sound like my mum." Spike turned toward the bay, staring out over the glistening dark waters.

"Who's Miss Edith?"

"It's the fucking doll." Spike shook his head. "I knew there was a little girl because I've seen her. Seen every last one of 'em. Every one. Watched 'em die in my goddamn dreams for a week now."

"And the doll? Where does that fit in?"

"I don't know." They were silent, Spike coughing only slightly as he raised the cigarette to his lips and breathed in the smoke. He watched it curl and rise as he exhaled, feeling a lifetime worth of deja vu.

"Maybe you've got some sort of psychic connection to the killer."

"Maybe I am the bloody killer." Spike shook his head and ground the cigarette out with the toe of his boot. "They weren't killed here. Dragged and dumped. I can tell you where each one of them was killed though. The street names, everything. I can hear them in my head and see them every time I close my eyes."

"Davis." Gage put one hand on Spike's shoulder. "You're my partner and you're my friend. I can't believe you killed those people. I know you and you're not a killer. Not like that. I don't care how crazy it sounds, there has to be another explanation. Just don't crack up on me now."

"I don't know who I am anymore, Gage. What I'm doing, why I'm here. I'm so fucking lost." Spike clenched his fists tightly and shook his head. "It's like I'm trapped in a dream. Only this is the dream and the world where I kill people is what's real. I don't know what's real."

"Talk to Dr. Coleman."

"Alright." Spike took a deep breath.

"I've got your back, man. You know that."

"I know. Thanks." Spike tried to smile, still shaken and horrified by the carnage inside the warehouse. The dead bodies that he couldn't prove to himself hadn't been dragged there by his own two hands. Only the doll, Miss Edith, didn't make any sense. It was a message, he knew that much, and he wondered if it was meant for him alone. Maybe he was connected to the killer, seeing through his dreams what they were doing. Maybe it wasn't impossible. Dr. Coleman would probably pull him from the case and put him under observation. If there was evidence that he had killed those people, Crime Scene would find it and he'd be just another cautionary tale of the cop who let the pressure drive him mad. Gage would fight for him because he would never believe Spike had done it.

"Stop." Gage's usually playful voice was harsh. "I know what you're doing, so stop it. You're not the judge, jury, and executioner. I won't let you blame yourself for this."

"Even if it wasn't me." Spike turned back to the warehouse, smiling at his partner's insight. "If it is something as crazy as having a psychic connection to the killer. I should have tried to find out, I should have tried to save them."

"You're going to try now. We're going to stop them before this happens again. But I need you with me." He stopped Spike and took hold of his shoulders firmly. "We're going to go in there and process this scene just like we do every other one and we're going to catch the son of a bitch who did this. Freaky visions or whatever, this is just another case. Only this time, it stays at work. You go home at night, kick up your feet, and have a beer. You've got to relax, Davis."

"Fine. Let's just get it over with. Gonna be three in the bloody morning before we get out of here anyway."


	35. Calling All Dragonflies

**Calling All Dragonflies**

"Did you," Fred stopped, biting her lip nervously. "I mean…did he have to? Really, really have to? 'Cause there had to be another way, right?"

"At least she can't follow us around and get in the way." Gunn shrugged his shoulders and leaned into a feline stretch. "You're the one who blew the whistle on Ms. Morgan and her attempt to scramble Cara's brains."

"But don't you think it's a bit extreme?" Fred shuddered and gave the library doors a wide berth before heading into the office to claim her favorite chair. "I know he's already cut her head off once before, but did he really have to do that? It's not like he can actually kill her, he's been trying for years. So why shish-kabob her?

"Because he could and because it pissed her off."

"I haven't seen him this angry…well…ever." Compulsively, she dug through her purse for the bag of cookies she remembered tossing in that morning. Hopefully they would settle her nervous stomach. "But she's still talking and being Lilah, right? Just run through the middle and stuck to the wall."

"Oh yeah. Major creep out points for that one but I don't think she wants to get on Wesley's bad side."

"This isn't his bad side?" Gwen raised her eyebrows as she glided into Angel's office, kissing Gunn quickly before settling down on one of the couches. "I'd really hate to see his bad side if that isn't it. What's got his knickers in a twist?"

"Lilah tried to brainwash Cara." Fred attacked another cookie, her earlier anger returning. "She tried to give Cara all of her memories."

"Decided she wanted a new body and a Slayer would be quite an upgrade. Wesley's Slayer at that." With a sigh, Gunn flicked on the television to watch for any reports of a super strong crazy girl running around Los Angeles.

Gwen drummed her well-manicured fingers on the arm of the couch. "Still carrying a torch?"

"I guess. But they totally screwed it up." Fred wiped cookie crumbs off of her lap between bites. "What the Council did to Cara was bad but it wasn't mystical. That means that the memories were still there, just buried really deep and meaningless. Complete disassociation. If she had remembered anything, it would have been no more real than a dream. Using magic, you can actually alter the neural pathways and the electrical information that records the memories. But you have to go in a very specific order if you don't want to end up with spaghetti."

Gwen winked at Fred. "Cut to the chase scene, sweetheart."

"They were supposed to start with Lilah's childhood. If you were given all of Lilah's memories from yesterday but none of the days before they would be completely meaningless. From what I can tell with the computer transfer records, it was set up correctly but it didn't work and started with recent memories, mostly the last seven years and a good chunk of law school."

"And this is bad because Cara won't be able to understand them without the years they left out," Gunn added, sitting down beside Gwen.

"It's horrible. She won't know what's real and what isn't and the worst part was that they left all of Cara's memories from the Slayer Academy and Sunnydale. So she's still got all of the memories Lorne talked about plus seven years of Lilah and Wolfram and Hart."

Grimacing, Gwen moved closer to Gunn. "That explains the Watcher on the warpath, then."

"Angel's out searching the sewers and the tunnels surrounding Wolfram and Hart until the sun goes down. She's pretty slippery though. Wes keeps trying location spells but she's always gone when we get there."

"He's supposed to have her in Sunnydale tomorrow for the Slayer convention," Gunn mused sympathetically. "Told him we'd join the search party as soon as you got here."

"No problem. I'll grab a change of clothes. Any word from Cordy?"

"She hasn't had a vision if that's what you mean. Mostly we're just staying out of Wesley's way. After he skewered Lilah, we've all been a little worried about him."

"Well, it can't hurt her, can it?"

"No. But I really don't want to be in her shoes. I think he'll actually find a way to get rid of her this time." Shivering at the thought, Fred curled her legs up against her and wrapped her arms around her knees. "You go on. Angel's got his cell phone on. I'll hold down the fort here and keep Cordy company. Lorne should be back from checking all of his contacts soon."

"Give us a ring if you need anything."

"Will do."

Once they were gone, Fred scooped up the bag of cookies and padded silently toward Cordy's rarely used office, hoping that Wesley wouldn't hear or see her as she passed the library and ask her more questions she couldn't answer. Yes, Cara was most likely insane by now. No, she didn't know how it happened or how to find her. No, she hadn't authorized the use of her equipment. She'd felt horribly guilty when she had realized that Lilah had used her research in an attempt to steal Cara's body and was still grateful that Knox had noticed the unauthorized use and tried to shut it down as soon as he could. Since the whole system had malfunctioned and given Cara all the wrong memories, it was a double hit of guilt for Fred.

"Wes still playing cowboys and Indians?" Cordelia looked up tiredly from her polished desk, hands holding a piece of Cara's clothing loosely as she tried to trigger a vision of the lost Slayer. She had never stayed at Wolfram and Hart long enough to add any personal effects to the bare office, using it only when necessary.

"He hasn't scalped her yet."

"It's not like she's in pain, Fred."

"It's just really yucky, you know?"

Cordelia pulled a face at the doorway and set the t-shirt down abruptly. "Nothing here. But the Powers have never really been big with the on demand type of info."

"I hate to say this but maybe none of this would have happened if we hadn't moved into the warehouse. If we'd stayed at the main office. I'm not blaming you or anything. Just wondering about it."

"I've wondered the same thing." Cordelia shook her head. "But I'm sure Lilah would have found a way regardless of where we were. I'm surprised she didn't try to take my body while I was in a coma."

"If she'd wanted Angel, she might have done it, but I think she was trying to get to Wesley."

"She's getting to him, that's for sure. Just not the way she wanted to. And I'd hate to be her after he has to call and explain to the Watcher's Council that he's lost another Slayer."

"He's taking this pretty hard." Fred sighed again, too upset and depressed to do much else.

"Of course he is. This was his big chance to make up for past mistakes. He's always trying to save people and most of the time he fails. This was a chance to turn a failure into a success." Cordelia frowned at the t-shirt again. "And I think he and Cara worked well together. Both brainy, book types with all their demon knowledge and weapon stuff."

"Not to mention that if we do get her back…when we get her back…she'll have all of Lilah's memories and we may not come out too shiny and happy in her opinion." Fred smiled weakly. "The last few years haven't exactly been Nobel Peace Prize winners for any of us."

"As long as she knows I'm not evil any more."

"And what about Wesley and Lilah's past? She'll have all of those memories too. That's gotta be hard for him, knowing that every time she looks at him." She took solace in the bag of cookies.

Cordelia tapped one finger lightly on the tabletop. "On the plus side, she'll know everything Lilah knows about Wolfram and Hart. Right?"

"Probably."

"And that means we don't need Lilah any more."

"She's still got her contract with Wolfram and Hart. It's unbreakable."

Cordelia suddenly grinned brightly. "Lilah's the one who told us it those contracts can't be broken. Maybe Cara will have a different take. At the very least, we can make a case for the senior partners that we just don't need her anymore. Hopefully they'll send her back to Hell or wherever she came from."

"If we could find a way that she'd violated the conditions of her contract, which would be nearly impossible since depravity and evil are kind of the expected employee activities."

"But if she'd done something to compromise Wolfram and Hart security?"

"Such as putting all her memories of say, passwords, codes, rituals, into a Slayer's head."

"A Slayer who's nuttier than a fruitcake and a huge security risk." A calculating gleam appeared in Cordelia's eyes. "It may not get us our Slayer back but I'm pretty sure we can finally get rid of Lilah."

"How can I help?"

"First, we need a copy of her contract. There's gotta be pages of fine print and somewhere in all that legal soup, there will be a loophole."

* * *

"Do you think she's manic depressive?" Dawn pulled out another book from the psychology section.

"Faith? No, I don't think so." Willow shook her head and put back a book on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

"I meant Buffy."

"What do you mean?"

"She's been freaky happy Buffy for the last few days. Maybe it's hormonal."

"She's probably just glad to be starting classes again, Dawn. She's only been able to go every other semester and it's been hard on her. If the deal with the men in black goes through, she'll be able to be a full-time student again and not worry about money."

Dawn shrugged and started into the self-help aisle, glancing around for titles that might be of use in their quest to aid Faith. "Maybe I'm just used to Stoic Buffy. But she reminds me of the Buffy Bot, really. Are you sure you didn't fix that thing?"

"Two hundred percent sure on the non-fixing of the bot. Ripped to pieces, remember?" Willow shuddered a little at the memory.

"We'll know for sure if she starts comparing everything to Spike and talking about his wash board abs. Ugh." Sifting through another row of books, Dawn finally gave up. "There's nothing new here. It's all the same thing. Time, time, more time, and space. She is getting better, right? I mean, the whole urn thingy seemed to help." Her voice was hopeful but she didn't feel it. Faith wasn't getting better and everyone knew it. It wasn't that she had shut them out, she had simply shut down completely. She talked, she ran, she even helped with the chores but her eyes were blank, her voice flat, and the zest for life that had always characterized Faith had vanished.

Willow put her books down and nodded toward the café. "Time for a beverage break, I think. Recharge before heading back into the fray."

"Something with sugar, please." Dawn claimed one of the round tables with tall stools. They were her favorite because she liked to swing her legs freely without hitting the ground, as though she was sitting on a cloud high above the world. A very tiny cloud surrounded by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the musty ink scent of the books. Pure heaven. Sure, there were finer things in life, but you couldn't live on a Hellmouth without learning not to take the simple pleasures for granted. There were far too many apocalyptic demon cults trying to end the world.

"Italian soda, raspberry and cream." Willow put the drink down carefully and settled onto a stool with her Chai Tea. "Faith's going to be fine. She's got you and Buffy."

"I just keep thinking that she's talking to all the wrong people." Dawn sipped at her drink. "I mean, you lost Tara and Xander lost Anya but she's not talking to either of you. She's just sort of disappeared into Faith World and I'm worried she's not coming back."

"It takes time. Xander and I had each other and you guys but it still took a long time before either of us really felt comfortable opening up about it. And we didn't have Faith's past to get in the way. It's not like she talks to Xander at all."

"And she gets the scared bunny look whenever she has to be in the same room with him."

"She's changed a lot since she tried to kill him."

"I'm the only one who hasn't tried to kill you all." Dawn rolled her eyes and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Maybe Giles hasn't but I think you can blame Ethan on him actually, so he totally doesn't count."

"Xander hasn't really tried to kill us all."

"Yeah, except he summoned the singing demon that one time and Buffy told me about the time he was possessed by the hyena."

"Oh, right." Willow frowned. "But if you count your blood opening the expressway to Hell then you've tried to kill us too."

"Totally not my fault. I was so not the one with the knife."

"But if we count Xander, we have to count you. Accidental attempts to kill us are still in the running."

"Fine. So we've all tried to kill everyone else at some point. Some friends we are." Dawn snorted and turned back to her drink. "We should probably just stay away from Faith, she'd be better off without us."

"It'll work out. Did you get caught up on all your homework?"

"Just in time for finals." Dawn shrugged. "It wasn't too bad since I was caught up before everything went wonky and the profs mostly understood that people had world ending stuff to do. At least, lots of flood damage to take care of and power outages in which many lost their final essays to the dreaded computer monster." She fiddled with the straw wrapper for a moment and slurped more of her soda. "What do you think Buffy'll do with a business degree? I always figured she'd go into counseling or something. I mean, she likes being around the kids at the high school."

"I know she's mentioned working at one of the greenhouses. Putting her secret fertilizer to use."

"At least there's a reason the cemeteries are always so green. Even if it is kinda gross."

"It's good for Buffy though. If we could just find something like that for Faith."

"Maybe she could teach P.E. or something. Be a coach."

"Has she said anything?"

"Wants to see what happens with the government types tomorrow." Dawn checked her watch. "They'll probably be stuck with the Council for another hour or two. I think Iverson wanted to coach them on how to deal with the Initiative Redux and Riley was supposed to be here today to give them a tour of the new facilities."

"So it's home free for you and me. We should live it up, catch a movie or something."

"You're sure you don't have to get back to your research?"

"Absolutely. Plenty of free time to spend with my favorite surrogate sister. Besides, in total need of feminine support for a covert mission."

Dawn perked up. "Like the scoping out an available female kind of covert?"

"Of course."

"Cool. Is she cute?"

Willow rolled her eyes. "I've seen her around campus a few times and you know, there's nothing like an apocalypse to make you realize that you should just get out there and ask her out. Or at least, I should just get out there and ask her out."

"This is so cool. Xander's got a non-demony type of girlfriend who is a total riot and now you've got your eye on someone. I just need to find some hunky guy to sweep me off my feet and all is good."

"No prospects, huh?"

"Nary a one." Dawn sighed and waved unconcernedly. "I've been totally spoiled by you and Xander and Buffy. I want it to be great and perfect. Like you and Tara or Xander and Anya before the whole wedding fiasco. Or I want someone to worship me the way Spike loved Buffy. It's kinda hard to settle for casual dating with all the Shakespearean romances around here."

"You do know that all three of the romances you just mentioned ended badly and with a dead body, right?" Willow blinked at her, a little puzzled and a little worried.

"Yeah, I know. But before they died it was good, right? Okay, maybe Buffy and Spike were all sorts of bad but he really did love her until he got his soul back and hooked up with Faith. All right, Sunnydale examples are not of the good, but see? That's exactly my point. How am I supposed to know what good romance is when all I have are Juliet, Ophelia, and whoever else died horribly useless deaths just so the play would do better at the box office? I'm warped beyond repair by all of your shenanigans."

"Shenanigans?"

"Is so a word. It's even in the dictionary."

Willow laughed at Dawn's sour expression. "I know. It's just funny to hear you say it. Little Dawnie, all grown up and looking for love amidst the shenanigans."

"Ha ha. Make fun of me now, you'll have to listen to me sob about my broken heart later because I can't have someone who loves me as much as Tara loved you."

"You'll find someone, sweetie. I promise."

"Yeah." Dawn fiddled with her cup for a moment, swishing the ice around the bottom. "Weird question?"

"Ask away."

"Why William? Why not Spike? It's not like Sunnydale Memorial would care. I'm sure they see as much of the creepy as we do."

Willow stared thoughtfully into her tea. "It just felt right. Somehow. As though William was the one we were saying goodbye to instead of Spike. We had Spike at first, but it just didn't seem to fit. Too final, I guess. I mean, Angel came back from hell and I guess part of me still thinks that Spike will come back some day. From wherever he is. But William? Somehow I don't think he'll ever be back."

"Ask a weird question, get a weird answer." Dawn smiled. "But I get what you mean. It just doesn't feel right the other way."

"I didn't say anything to Buffy or Faith cause it sounds pretty crazy."

"Okay." Dawn swung off of her stool abruptly. "Operation Hottie Reconnaissance begins ASAP. Where do we make contact?"

"She's showing her artwork up in one of the school galleries."

"Sculpture?"

"Oil paintings." Willow blushed a little as they gathered up their bags and headed out of the UC Sunnydale bookstore and café. "I'm not sure what kind. I've only seen a couple, but they were very nice."

"Is she one of those crazy artsy hippie chicks?"

"Not really. I mean, she wears really cool clothes and stuff. Jewelry, bangles, and she has this adorable little knitted hat and matching scarf. Rainbow."

"Height, build, coloring?"

"My height. Sandy brunette, kind of like Tara. About my build, brown eyes. I think. I haven't actually gotten up the courage to maintain serious eye contact."

"So we check out the gallery, get a feel for what she's like and then initiate contact. Do you even know if she's into women?"

"I think so. But I could be wrong and that could be a major hurdle."

"Nah. Who could resist your charms?" Dawn linked her arm through Willow's as they made their way across the campus toward the Fine Arts building.

The gallery was cool and dry, only the soft sounds of hushed shoes moving across the stone floor and the occasional whisper of paper as someone leafed through the program of undergraduate displays. They picked up a program and after stifling a few giggles at the stuffed shirt manning the front table, they hurried off in search of the right exhibit. A corner cubicle had been set up in the maze of walls and artwork; it held the half dozen paintings they were looking for. Most of them were brightly colored landscapes with huge flowers and a very stylized sun beaming down onto twisting roads and fields. One was an abstract with heavy diagonal bars criss-crossing rectangles of color gradients and speckles of white and yellow. The last one was a female nude lying in bed, barely wrapped in a sheet and staring at the empty spot next to her in a large bed.

"It's sad," Willow whispered.

"And lonely." Dawn leaned her head on Willow's shoulder as they studied the painting.

"It feels like I did after Tara was killed. After the black haired part." Willow wrapped one arm around Dawn's waist. "In England, I'd stare at the bed for hours at night and all I could think of was that it would be empty forever because she'd never be there again. Never lie by my side and hold me."

"This is how Faith feels," Dawn commented with sudden insight.

"It's hard to have someone there one minute and gone the next. Hard to watch them go and know there's nothing you can do." Willow's voice was sad but clear.

"I'm glad you like it." The voice startled them and they jumped apart nervously. Behind them, a woman matching Willow's description was smiling, her long hair looped up into a tangled bun and pale fingers twisting part of her skirt a bit nervously. A pale swirl of cream and green fabric was knotted loosely around her neck and feathered lightly over her shoulder. "It's always nice to create something that reaches people in different ways."

"These are yours?" Dawn prodded Willow with her elbow but the witch just blushed furiously and kept her mouth closed.

"My blood, sweat, and tears for the last two semesters. Graduating can be a real bitch." The artist smiled, lighting up soft brown eyes. "Thanks for coming and seeing my stuff. I'm Leia."

"Dawn. And this is Willow. She's a big fan of your work but a little on the shy side." Dawn nudged Willow again and ignored the glare.

"Dawn, Willow. Pleased to meet you. There's a sculptor you should really check out while you're here. He does the most amazing things with clay." Leia led them through the maze to a series of organic sculptures glazed with a dark bronze. There was a large block of what appeared to be an ocean wave rising up to crash down on the beach. Looking closer, Dawn noticed several faces and hands reaching out of the surf like mermaids riding the crest of the wave as a roller coaster.

"Very cool." Dawn nodded, detaching Willow's nervous hands from her arm and moving around the sculpture. "This must have taken forever."

"Yeah. Took up the kiln for nearly a month and everyone wanted to lynch him. But it's beautiful now and we all love it." Leia glanced between them curiously. "I don't mean to pry but are you two together?"

"No! I mean, not because we're both women because that's fine, but she's my best friend's sister and that would be icky." Willow blushed scarlet.

"Hey!" Dawn grinned, trying not to laugh at the reappearance of Rambling Willow. "Besides, I'm way older than Willow."

"Dawn."

"Kidding. I'm too young for her actually, still fresh faced and innocent." Dawn shrugged and moved to the next sculpture. "As much as I love you Willow, I really don't swing that way. Sorry."

Leia smiled apologetically. "I was just curious. You seem really close. I didn't mean to barge into your private lives like a bull in a china shop. Sometimes my mouth gets me in trouble."

"I know the feeling," Willow said quickly. "I babble when I'm nervous and it's generally incoherent. Not much for first impressions."

"But we think it's endearing," Dawn interjected, eyeing what looked like a disgruntled volcano. "Our friends do, anyway."

"I tend to be too aggressive but I'm working on that." Leia was still fiddling with her floral skirt.

"How's it coming for you?"

"Can I get back to you on that?"

Dawn bit back a laugh and moved further into the maze of artwork to let Willow and Leia continue to talk. The unsuspecting art student was doomed. No one could resist the powers of Willow Babble; it had the effect of making someone want to strangle and cherish her at the same time, as though she was something that needed to be taken care of rather than a super powerful witch. It was a time capsule to a time when Willow was innocent and shy, before the darkness and harshness of life took its toll on them all.

A quick glance at her watch assured her that there was still plenty of time before Buffy and Faith would head home for their last night of unregulated sleep. Dawn was all for the government being there as long as they helped pay the mortgage, killed some demons, and generally left self-aware demon cyborgs on the drawing board. And she'd seen the faraway look in Buffy's eyes when she talked about having children. Dawn had reminded her several times that she should probably worry about getting a boyfriend first but that didn't seem to faze her. Then again, Buffy never did anything by the rules and Dawn doubted that having a family would be any different.

It was time that Dawn started thinking about her own future and her own family, if she wanted one at all. Sometimes it seemed that having a family was a sure way to get hurt. And if she was perfectly honest, she didn't know if she was even capable of having a family. Frustrated, she moved to the next exhibit and searched her brain for the lost memories of her brief time away from this world. She knew she'd gotten answers there, wherever she had been. But she just couldn't remember, they slipped away like greased weasels when she tried to grab hold of them. Damn memories. Such fickle bits of sound and light. It wasn't like she'd asked for this gig in the first place. She hadn't asked to be made human and be given memories of home and family.

Frowning, she stopped in front of a painting and grabbed hold of a stray thought. Family. The families of the Slayers had been destroyed. Anyone and everyone who carried Slayer genes. Her frown deepened. Summers blood. The monks had made Dawn from Buffy. She should be carrying the Slayer genes by default. Why hadn't anyone tried to kill her? That led to another question. Could she pass those genes on to her children? Did the government know? Somehow it was more frightening when she was potentially the one under the microscope and she really began to wonder about Buffy's behavior. How could she be so calm, so cavalier, about the whole having babies issue? She shuddered and rubbed her arms against the air-conditioned cold of the gallery.

Sometimes being an adult really sucked. Being mature and having eyes wide open usually meant standing on the tracks and staring into the headlight of the oncoming train. Life was a string of moral quagmires and questions; living in Sunnydale added a fourth dimension to an already chaotic world. She couldn't sit home and do her homework in peace knowing that Buffy was out fighting for all of their lives. Every night. For ten years. The magnitude of her sister's devotion was too much to comprehend sometimes, staggering in its magnitude. To be Chosen, predestined, was to be doomed to a world where the pretty lies of humanity could never cover up the glaring truth. Trick of the light, PCP. The excuses just didn't cut it after you'd killed as many demons as Buffy had. Or seen as many people die.

Feeling older than her nineteen years and much older than her actual human age of five, Dawn settled onto a bench to wait for Willow. The witch had gotten over her initial stage fright and was laughing, eyes sparkling with the excitement of meeting someone new. Dawn didn't feel like interrupting them and she didn't want to go home to an empty house just yet. Her ponytail snagged as she leaned against the wall and she winced as she pulled the captured strands free, glaring at the offending crack in the plaster. It took several minutes to find a comfortable position and she finally abandoned any attempt at social decorum to stretch out on the bench, hair cascading over one end and her feet hanging off the other. She just hoped the bench didn't turn out to be someone's art. Considering some of the displays, she couldn't be absolutely sure it wasn't a final project. Since no one was screaming or telling her to get up, she figured she was safe and closed her eyes.

The world was different without the sense of sight. Her ears began to pick up the faint sounds of feet moving across the stone floor and she could hear the gentle hum of Willow's voice, the richly feminine laughter from Leia, the whir of the cooling vents, and the hum of the lights above her. Tall ceilings were conducive to ghostly echoes and, if she concentrated, she could hear students passing outside the entrance, laughing and shouting as they made their way to the final classes of the semester. Summer was coming and in less than a week, Dawn would have nothing to do but work, read, sleep in, and the occasional patrol if Buffy felt like company. Usually, she looked forward to the peace and quiet of the summer months. Especially after the annual Hellmouth perkiness finally faded away at the end of May.

This time, summer wouldn't mean lazy days at the beach and relaxation in the shade. The army was here and they meant to stay. Dawn figured they wouldn't care that it was off-season for the demonic community of Sunnydale. If there weren't enough monsters for the commandos to kill or study, they'd probably import them. Not only did Buffy have to deal with seeing Riley on a permanent basis now that he and Sam had moved back to Sunnydale, she would have to contend with bureaucracy, politics, and government regulation. Definitely not a set of enviable summer activities.

Dawn pushed away the serious thoughts and forced herself to think about getting a tan and finding a boyfriend. A girl had to have her priorities straight. Maybe she should cut her hair, try a shorter look. Or layers. She could try layers. And she needed a new bathing suit even though swimsuit shopping was right up there with the Spanish Inquisition on the fun scale. What would life be like if that was all she had to worry about? Her breathing slowed and she felt her muscles relaxing, listening to the even thrum of the sounds around her as they lulled her into a restful state. The bench was surprisingly comfortable; she let one hand dangle over the side and her fingers trailed over the cool stone. She could trace the cracks, imagining the landscape from an insect's point of view where each bump would be a mountain and each fissure the Grand Canyon. A harsh new world spreading out as far as bug eyes could see, broken only by pedestal stands bearing oddly shaped pottery and the portable cubicle walls for colorful canvases. Did bugs have cities and freeways? Bus systems, trains. Did the larger insects serve as passenger jets for the little ones? All aboard Dragonfly flight 356, non-stop to Memorial Park. Please keep personal wings closed at all times. She smiled at the imaginary world of commercial insect traffic, picturing bugs dressed in uniform and waving glowing cones to direct the living planes down the runway.

She pulled her hand back up, clasping fingers together in a funeral pose and taking deep breaths. The tickling sensation on the back of her hand was so slight that she barely noticed it the first time. When it tickled again, she reached to scratch the irritation and was startled to feel something brush against her fingertips. Expecting a wasp or a bee, she stilled and opened one eye. Iridescent wings fluttered and the luminous eyes of a sparkling green dragonfly were studying her intently. The body spanned the width of her hand, tiny feet prancing and tickling as it settled into a comfortable spot.

"Hey," she whispered, careful not to disturb the creature perched on her hand. "I was just thinking about dragonflies." The wings flapped twice as if to say _'I know'_ and it continued to stare. Sitting up slowly, she raised her hand and peered into the faceted eyes, searching for intelligence. How had a dragonfly gotten into the gallery? She'd never seen one as large or as brightly colored in Sunnydale before.

"What's your name?" Smiling at the insect, she watched the wings flutter again. "I guess I could call you Evinrude. He was a dragonfly in a movie so I guess you could say he was famous. I could even get you a little scarf to wear." It twisted around, wing tips brushing against her skin and regarded her solemnly for a few more seconds before taking flight. Buzzing quietly, it circled her head a few times before zooming to the left and out through an open window.

Willow's voice broke the spell. "Dawn! Come look at this!"

Dawn pushed off of the bench and headed toward the bank of windows at the far side of the gallery. Willow and Leia were standing, almost pressed against the glass. "What's up, guys?" Her voice trailed off as she stopped beside Willow.

"How many do you think there are?" Willow asked, her voice hushed.

"I've never seen so many." Leia was also whispering, as though afraid any loud noise would frighten the creatures away.

Outside the gallery windows were thousands of gleaming dragonflies. Greens, purples, even sapphire blues glittered in the sunlight as they spun through the steps of a frenzied dance known only to insects. A crowd of students had gathered to witness the event, pointing and smiling at the darting swirls of humming color. Dawn stared at the back of her hand, remembering the strange tickling feeling of tiny feet and broad wings. She was suddenly very glad she hadn't been thinking about demons.

* * *

When the last seventy-five year review had come, Lilah had been a young, green lawyer desperate to learn everything that could help her stay at Wolfram and Hart. The results of past reviews could be summed up as blood and carnage and, if Angel hadn't burst in to crash the party, it undoubtedly would have ended the same way. Remembering back to the weeks of nervousness, nights of research, and the stress she'd felt preparing for the review, she decided those were the good old days. In fact, any day that didn't have her pinned to the wall with a sword driven through her abdomen was looking pretty good. At least he hadn't chopped her head off. Again.

"Wes, come on. You know this is useless. You can't kill me."

"That hasn't stopped me from trying, has it?" Gray blue eyes flashed dangerously as he started on another pile of papers. "One of these days, I will find a way to get you out of my life."

"I'm crushed. But shouldn't you be more worried about your precious Slayer?" Wiggling was almost painful but her itching back took precedence. It wasn't like she could ask him to scratch it for her, he'd probably use something with a very sharp, very long blade.

"The Slayer you tried to destroy?" Wesley ground out angrily, fists closed tightly as he glared across the library. Probably trying to think of new ways to torture her.

"Come on, Wes. She was barely human and you know it. I was doing her a favor."

"Do explain that bit of twisted logic," he snarled, leaning back in his chair with an expectant look.

"Say we had fixed her? Put back all her memories shiny and new and made them mean something. So she could go home to England and visit her family's graves? Every one of them six feet under just because of a few chromosomes. Think about it, Wes."

"I have thought about it. It hasn't changed my mind."

"She would have blamed herself. You know Slayers. It's all about self-sacrifice and the greater good. She would have blamed herself for not protecting them. Any guesses on how long she would have lasted? A few days? A few months? Where would the Slayer lines be then? You don't honestly want to leave the future of the Slayers in Faith's hands, do you? And I hear Buffy prefers her lovers room temperature."

"Shut up," Wesley snapped, standing up and beginning to pace.

"You know I'm right. I'm always right."

"Maybe. If it had worked." He stopped, eying her distastefully. "But it didn't."

"Cavalry was too late to grab the girl, though. Poor Wes. How does it feel to lose another Slayer?"

His voice was low and deadly. "I don't know what you were trying to gain by giving her the last seven years of your memories but I will figure it out."

"I told you it wasn't supposed to go that way." Lilah shook her head before he could speak again. "And spare me the lecture. I've heard the - memories have to be in the right order or the poor little Slayer will go insane - speech enough times to have it memorized. I don't know what went wrong." She hated being wrong, but she hated not knowing more.

"You haven't even shown an ounce of concern for her."

"Why should I? You'll find her, bring her back in. And you'll have no choice but to finish what I started. If you want to save any of her at all." Being skewered like a bug tended to take the edge off of any gloating she wanted to do.

"We'll find another way."

"Right. Of course, you're also assuming she won't kill you on sight."

"She knows we aren't trying to hurt her." He didn't sound as confident as he had before.

"Gotta admit, the last few years haven't exactly been rosy for any of you. She may decide you're just as bad as the rest of us." Lilah smirked, glad to be back on familiar taunting ground. "The whole Connor soap opera? I doubt any of you will come out looking like Mother Teresa in that mess. And Cordelia? Maybe if we're real lucky, Cara will decide the bitch is still evil and bump her off."

"You're pathetic, Lilah."

"Yeah, well. We all have our strengths. Do you think she'll still look up at you with those adoring eyes once she's seen your past? Seen us?" The bitter taste of dead blood should have filled her mouth when his fist knocked several teeth loose. She was glad she couldn't taste it.

"You don't know her." One hand reached for the hilt of the sword.

"Yeah. And you're doing real well at reading her mind. It's been nearly two days and you haven't managed to catch up with her." Lilah clenched her teeth to keep from reacting to the twisting of the blade through her stomach.

"Angel is following her trail."

"And you're here like a good little Watcher. Watching. Me mostly." She almost laughed at his glare. "Sure, you've tried a few location spells that didn't work because she's gone as soon as you get there. Face it. She's not coming back to you."

"Shut your mouth."

"Look at the bright side. At least this one didn't end up in prison."

"I said, shut up."

"When have I ever listened to you, Wes? When? I may be a captive audience since you've stuck me to the wall with a glorified thumbtack, but I'm not going to just stand here and say nothing."

"I suppose I could cut out your tongue. That might shut you up."

"Wesley. Wesley. I'm already dead. Stop pretending anything you do to me matters." She watched as he stormed back to his books and maps, whispering the words that would reveal yet another dead-end.

As soon as he got a location, he would call Angel and send the vampire running. But catching a Slayer had proven to be easier said than done and this one was good at disappearing. From the conversation she'd overheard between Wes and Angel, Lilah knew that Cara had spent some time living on the streets and was capable of slithering undetected into the sewers along with the rats. There were no reports of anyone injured by a young girl or talk among the demon communities of a new player. She had simply gone underground and disappeared. Come daybreak, she always managed to find a place where sunlight kept Angel at bay and when the others went in after her, they found little more than a few footprints and bits of food. Lilah had watched the farce from her vantage point on the library wall since it had begun.

After Knox had called Fred with the report that her neural transfer system was being used without proper authorization and the physicist had stormed in, the rest of Angel Investigations on her heels, and demanded to know what Lilah had done to Cara. By that time, of course, the Slayer had escaped into the tunnels and the great mouse hunt had begun. It had been almost midnight when Fred returned, eyes blazing anew as she had explained that not only had the process failed, but it had been botched so completely it could be irreparable. As though someone had picked through Lilah's memory and given Cara what they wanted without regard to sequence or how the memories would explain themselves in the Slayer's fragile psyche. One crazy Slayer had been set loose on the City of Angels.

None of that was Lilah's fault. She'd had the doctor's word that Cara would simply cease to exist and the two men had sworn from their stretchers that they hadn't done anything outside of the proper sequence. Lilah had been screwed over as much as the others, but she was the only one who'd gotten a sword through the stomach.

"Where's your girlfriend?" Lilah broke the silence, feeling rather like a petulant child stuck in the corner for a time out. "What kind of demon is she anyway? Well, half breed."

"I don't remember you talking this much when you were alive."

"My mouth was usually engaged elsewhere."

"I remember that." There was a quirk of a smile on his face.

"So where is she? Isn't this where they typically bring coffee and donuts and pretend to care?"

Wesley turned away from her. "We decided to take some time apart."

Lilah laughed, pleased that she wouldn't have to kill the hybrid whore after all. "What was it this time? Life on the dangerous side didn't suit her?"

"It was a mutual agreement. I needed more time to devote to helping Cara." He glanced up, eyes cooling to the color of cold steel. "Quite fortuitous, wouldn't you say?"

"How'd she take it? Brushing her off to spend time with a barely legal."

"It's not like that, Lilah and you know it." Shaking his head, he rubbed his face tiredly before meeting her gaze. "Do you think of nothing but sex?"

"Come on. Tell me you haven't watched her train with a little more than an objective eye." She watched him carefully, noting the quick dart of his eyes before he denied it. Excellent. She hadn't been wrong after all. "You know you can't lie to me, Wes. She may not realize what she's got but I'm pretty sure you've noticed."

"She's my Slayer."

"And you're her Watcher. I bet if you look hard enough, it's happened before."

His head tipped to the side thoughtfully. "Why are you doing this?"

"Nothing else to do." She shrugged and backed off. It was good enough to know that he had noticed the curves along with technique and precision. Lilah knew men and she knew Wesley. Biology was one thing not even he could ignore. Nor could he dismiss the possibility that they would have to bring Cara back to finish the process. Fred had all but agreed that they might have to let Lilah finish the neural transfer and even though it wouldn't be a surprise, her plan could still work.

Wesley sighed. "I thought I knew you, Lilah. Thought I understood. But your mind goes places I hope I never understand."

"I'm flattered."

"You would be." Straightening his shoulders, he turned back to the map and sprinkled a handful of dust over the surface, waiting for the telltale lights to appear as it lit up the various positions of the gang.

"I am sorry you'll miss the big group hug in Sunnydale tomorrow. Bad timing on my part."

"Lilah."

"Really. I am. I know how embarrassing it must be for you to have to show up empty handed."

"Lilah."

"I had no idea she'd run away and leave you hanging."

"Shut up." He reached for his cell phone, tapping in the numbers for Angel.

"What?" She strained to get a better look at the map.

"I'm going after her."

There was such hope in his voice that Lilah settled back against the wall with a heavy sigh. The emotional pain was hollow as he shrugged on his jacket and left the library, focused on the phone at his ear.

She was alone again.

She was disappointed, angry, and there was still a sword sticking out of her left side. Bitterly, she returned to her attempts to dislodge the blade from the wall behind her. So the prodigal Slayer had come home and they would run off to meet her, baby her, console her. Poor Slayer had been so tortured, so damaged. Lilah hated her. Hated her because she had Wesley's respect and his admiration. Ignoring the edges of the blade cutting into her hands, she braced herself against the wall and pushed against the hilt. Fucking Slayer didn't even know what she had, didn't understand what it was like to lose a man named Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. The sword slipped, caught, and came loose, tumbling to the floor as it slipped out of her flesh. She was certain that Wesley would never have stuck a sword through his precious Slayer and told her to shut up. If she had any luck at all, Cara would be completely incoherent and unable to spill Lilah's darkest secrets. Of course, given the current track record of Lady Luck, it would only be a matter of time before they all came running back to do more than just nail her to the wall.

Life wasn't fair even after you were dead.

* * *

A piece of wood was the only thing between Cara and insanity. An image of engraved vines in a stake worn smooth from her hands and the tip dull from the hearts it had pierced. It kept Lilah from taking over. Her hands were shaking, knuckles white around the sole anchor to what was real. Memories of Sunnydale shone like a lighthouse through the violence and vice of the past that was now Cara's even if she hadn't actually lived it.

She had run and kept running. Like a shark, needing to staying moving to stay alive. Into the filth and despair of the streets, the eyes of those who had lost hope following her blankly as she went back to the only place she had ever belonged; the only place her life had ever been clear. When all that had mattered was survival and the kill. One more demon, one more vampire. One at a time she would keep turning back the tide of darkness because she had been Chosen. She was a Slayer and it was her duty. But the streets offered no solace now that each of the nameless faces had histories and she knew that some of them, many of them, didn't want to be saved. They wanted to die quietly in the shadows, trapped in their own minds and numbed with whatever chemicals they could find. Where Cara had once felt kinship, she now felt revulsion and disgust.

Returning to Angel Investigations to get her stake had convinced her of one thing; she wasn't ready to face them. She couldn't look at them. Couldn't look at Wesley without seeing his eyes burn with hate and pain. Couldn't look at Cordelia without reliving Lilah's murder, hearing the brunette's final words as she stabbed the knife into her neck. Cara's heart was pounding, trying to remind herself that it was Lilah who had been murdered. Not her. That wasn't her. But it felt real. The fear, the pain. The rage at having to watch over Cordelia and take care of the woman who had killed her. It boiled beneath the surface and colored the world red. The others had less traumatic memories attached to them. A few of Gunn here, bitter memories of Fred, and harmless images of Lorne.

And Angel? She remembered his threats, his rage. Cutting off Lindsey's hand, locking Darla and Drusilla in with the Wolfram and Hart wine tasting party. As though she had been there. She remembered Darla, Drusilla.

_You have beautiful skin._

Cara looked down at her arms, seeing only dirt. No unsightly scars, no blemishes. Beautiful skin. She just wanted the voices in her head to stop. Angel. Dark, unyielding, angry. Cold. So different from the Angel who had merely raised one eyebrow when she had tossed him across the room and asked if it was a Slayer's way of saying hello. There were other, different, memories. The feel of his lips against hers and his fangs sinking into her neck. Reading the report that he had tried to kill Wesley in the hospital. His failed attempts to get Connor back and his threats when she had started following the boy. By then, she had already found Wesley, bitter and broken.

But it wasn't her.

Focusing on the stake, she traced the familiar design and thought of Xander, of Buffy. Of anything but the poison Lilah had filled her mind with. She would never be able to be around her Watcher without the emotional baggage of seven painful years. How naïve she had been, how young and childish. Maybe she would go insane from trying to reconcile Lilah's life and her own. Maybe she was already insane. None of that mattered any longer.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed off from the spot in the tunnels she had occupied and headed to the surface. Night was coming, she had to keep moving or Angel would find her. Is that what she wanted? For the confusion to finally end. Peace. Stupid question. She was fucked up beyond repair and couldn't tell the difference between reality and illusion. Concentrating on the stake, she forced down the bitter taste of chaos. Letting go to confusion meant letting go of herself. She just had to hold on long enough. Just long enough. It would get easier. It had to. There were only three Slayers left. Cara understood the gravity of that statement more than she had before. With Lilah's evil inside her head, she knew how desperately this world needed Slayers. The last line of defense against total annihilation of all that was good and pure.

The streets were bathed in a golden glow as the sun began to dip below the horizon, lighting the ocean in a blaze of color. Street names were familiar even though she had never seen them. She knew where to turn, which street to take. She knew a lot of things. She had knowledge of demons, of California law, of the people she had come to call friends. Knew more about Wesley Wyndam-Pryce than she had ever dreamed of knowing. She knew, but didn't understand, most of what had happened to Lilah. None of it made any sense. All of Angel's team had made their own trip to the dark side, most of which had been facilitated and encouraged by Lilah herself. Restlessly picking up her pace, it was a struggle not to start running through the darkening streets.

She hadn't killed anything in two days. Inaction was crawling and writhing under her skin, setting her muscles humming and aching for a good fight. Bloodlust. That was the word she had picked from Lilah's repertoire of emotions and labeled the restless violence that seemed to burn just beneath the surface. Part of her was ashamed of it and part of her gloried in it. Pausing briefly, she turned down a darkened alleyway, deeper into the bottomless abyss of the Los Angeles slums where there were always vampires lurking in the shadows. Her hands were shaking with anticipation. What would Wesley think if he could see into her head, into her heart?

Another insight from Lilah's memories. Cara frightened them because her fighting style wasn't as refined as Buffy's or as controlled as Faith's was now. It was efficient, it got the job done, but it turned their stomachs. Wesley's face appeared like a ghost in her mind's eye, pale and shaken, asking her why she'd taken the extra second to drive a piece of rebar through a vampire's throat before staking him. Immobilization, she had responded and she had believed it. Then. Had believed that she took out kneecaps, snapped spines and shattered skulls because it made them easier to stake. Made the killing blow straightforward and simple.

_Little Miss Full Metal Jacket with the heart of a killer. _

It hadn't made sense when Lilah had said it. Now it did. She was a Slayer. She was a killer. And she enjoyed it.

In Buffy's world, being a Slayer was a solemn duty thrust upon unsuspecting girls who were forced to live a life of sacrifice and pain. Cara didn't understand. Because the Council had made sure she wouldn't understand. They had stripped away her humanity, everything that made her like Buffy, and they had left her with nothing but the Slayer. She understood that now. She even had a good guess about their motives when they had decided to brainwash the potentials. It was something Wolfram and Hart would do. She shuddered, Lilah's emotions threatening to take over. Tiredly, she fought them down once again, a sense of futility creeping into her soul. How long would she be able to win? Seven years of Lilah against a year and a half year of Cara. Was there really any chance of winning?

Her hair snagged on a brick as she rounded a corner and she tugged it free, staring at the dark waves in her hand blankly. It needed a good moisturizing conditioner. That brought a smile to her face. She wasn't sure why. Glancing down, she saw dirt and streaks of dried blood covering her skin and clothing. A hundred ways she wasn't taking care of herself. Manicure, pedicure, waxing, moisturizing. Getting her hair styled and putting on make up. Being a woman carried the burden of a thousand beauty products and the never-ending quest to be younger and more attractive. The point of being attractive was nebulous. Cara wasn't sure if it was to ensure the companionship of a man or if it was vanity for its own sake. That part didn't make any sense. Gunn had said something that first night at Angel Investigations. About Buffy and Faith being beautiful, why wasn't Cara? Was she supposed to be beautiful? There seemed to be an enormous list of qualities that Slayers were supposed to possess that Cara didn't have. Mercy, compassion, beauty. At every turn, she came up short and she was wrong. Wrong and broken.

She kept moving through the dark streets of the housing complexes. Most were abandoned and would be crawling with vampire nests, the previous tenants either frightened away or eaten. Gunn's old neighborhood. It reminded her of Detroit, bleak and hopeless. Los Angeles needed a Slayer, maybe more than one. Or it needed to sink into the ocean and rid the world of its debauchery. Not just vampires, not just Wolfram and Hart, those were the tip of the iceberg. Little fish in a big pond waiting for the big fish to return. Thanks to Lilah, she knew something was coming. Something or someone who wasn't afraid of vampires with souls or Slayers.

Cara didn't care. It was all just one more fight. Eventually a monster or demon would slip in and sink claws or fangs into her skin. No more Slayer, no more fighting. Peace. None of it mattered to her. Nothing mattered anymore.

Faint shouting was coming from one of the abandoned houses and she headed in that direction. Not to help. Not to save. Just to fight and kill and be a Slayer. Because she wanted to. It was liberating. No grand message or sweeping duty, just blood and fists and power. On some level she recognized that Cara the Vampire Slayer wanted to save people and wanted to help people. She wasn't that Cara any longer. That Cara had been strapped to a table and ripped to shreds, unable to struggle or fight back. Sacred birthright? Fuck it. She just wanted to hurt something. Until there was nothing left but pain and death.

A group of vampires had herded half a dozen humans into a dead end, growling and taunting them. Cara frowned as she watched the insults hurl back and forth. The humans were armed with stakes, crossbows, a few knives and at least one machete. They obviously knew what they were up against and were determined to fight until the end. Los Angeles was full of surprises. She crept around the vampires and pulled herself silently up the wall of the collapsing building on the north side. Staying low, she eased herself into a better vantage point to watch the fight below.

The vampire at the forefront sneered, gesturing casually to the humans. "We've had enough of you and your little army."

"We're not afraid of you." A woman pushed her way to the edge of the group and stared down the vampires, not a hint of fear showing on her face. Cara recognized her. Older, battle scarred, but familiar. Justine. The woman who had slit Wesley's throat.

"How do you feel about dying?"

Justine shrugged. "Half your nest is dead. Are you ready to join them?"

"We aren't afraid of you." One of the younger vamps piped up. "You're not a Slayer."

"Doesn't matter. This will still kill you." She held up a crossbow threateningly.

Cara retreated into the shadows of the building, dropping down behind the wall and moving east toward the back of the human group. They were still shouting at each other. She wondered why the vampires weren't attacking. The humans must know how to handle themselves. Then again, vampires liked to brag. Cara hated that part and usually cut the taunting short by breaking bones. It seemed to be part of some ancient tradition, even Buffy traded barbs with her opponents as she fought. Bitterly, she added that to the list of Why Cara Wasn't a Proper Slayer as she impatiently climbed up to a broken window and slipped through. Boots hit the broken pavement with a soft thud and several of the humans glanced back toward her. One spun around and raised his crossbow, ordering her not to move.

Cara held up her stake. "Not a vampire."

"Check her pulse." The man snapped to the boy next to him. Cara waited as the boy hurried toward her nervously, holding out her wrist so he could feel the beat of her heart beneath the skin.

"She's human." He sagged with relief and scurried back to the group.

"Did you see any vamps inside the building?"

"No." Cara moved forward, filling a gap at the right edge. Close up, they were in worse shape than she had realized. Most were bloody and bruised, looking as though they hadn't had a good meal in days and a bath in longer than that. The boy was still watching her intently and she motioned toward the long knife he wore at his side. "May I?" He slipped the machete out of its sheath and handed it to her.

It felt good in her hand. Good balance, good weight. Spinning and twisting it through a pattern of figure eights, she relaxed the muscles in her wrist, warming them for the coming fight. There was nothing like the sound of a blade slicing through flesh. She tested the edge, pleased to find that it had been sharpened. The boy's eyes had widened, filled with awe and surprise. Cara was anxious to get into the fight, tired of listening to the vampires talk. She hated the chatty ones. Hate. That made her smile. She'd never hated anything before. The Academy had taught them that emotion was distraction, emotion would get them killed. To be a good Slayer meant stamping out all emotion, leaving nothing but the moves, the weapons. Concentration.

Pushing her way to the front of the group, she stopped at Justine's side. "Let's get this over with."

"Who are you?" The vampire snarled and glared at Justine. "Another one of your Slayer wannabes?"

"You could say that." Cara shrugged. "I'm tired of waiting for you to shut up." There was a slightly panicked look on Justine's face and Cara noticed the blood spreading across her side. She had been stalling, trying to find a way out for her wounded and weary band of warriors. Damn humans. Always getting in over their heads. She didn't care. Let them die.

"Step on up then. I'll make it especially painful just for you."

"Wait." Justine's hand caught her arm.

"Fall back," Cara ordered sharply, nodding toward the group. "Stick with the crossbows. Take out the ones along the walls."

The vampires were laughing as she closed the distance between them, stake in one hand and machete in the other. Every cell in her body was screaming for a good fight, hungry for blood and violence. Adrenaline began to sing through her veins and she smiled. This was the best part of being a Slayer. Into the fray. Who knows? She might die. She might finally slip up and get bitten. That was all part of the appeal. She didn't realize she was laughing until the vampires quieted, staring at her with a mixture of disbelief and anger.

"You're one crazy bitch," the leader hissed. She could see him coiling for an attack.

"You know what?" She caught his fist as he lashed out, twisting his hand down and snapping his wrist. "You're right."

She was crazy. She just didn't care. The machete carved through his torso and he stumbled back, not sure which wound to clutch as he glared murderously up at her. Another dove toward her, meeting the blade halfway and shrieking as it plunged through his ribcage. She didn't stake him. She didn't want to kill them. She wanted to hurt them. Kicking out, his knee made a sickening crack as it bent backwards and he crumpled to the ground. Bone crunched as she backhanded him furiously, anger and hate fueling her thirst for pain. The third vampire lost an arm, the knife slicing cleanly through the joint at the elbow and while he was focused on that injury, she twisted his head with a snap. Two of the vamps had disappeared into dust, arrows piercing their hearts. She kept going, driving the stake into flesh and slashing with the machete. It wasn't enough. Tossing away the weapons, she pounced on an escaping vampire, sweat dripping down her back as she pounded her fists into his face until he stopped moving.

Still not enough. There were a few more fighting the humans and she latched onto them, breaking arms, legs, necks. Cracking skulls against the ground and spattering blood over her hands and face. She knew how to twist and break, where to hit and inflict the most pain. The Council had taught her. Made her the perfect killer. She hated them too. Hated everything, hated the whole world. She could taste blood in her mouth as she yanked the last vampire onto his unsteady feet and slammed him against the wall, punching him hard enough to fracture ribs.

"Cara!" Someone was shouting, hands were grabbing hold of her arms and shoulders.

"No!" Screaming, she tried to get free, to get back to the vampire she had been tearing to pieces. They wouldn't let go. Turning in a fury, she barely registered Angel's face before her fist connected with his jaw. She hated him too. Hated him for what he'd done to Wesley, for years of threats and years of being his servant. At his beck and call, spending the best years of her life and death on him, wasting them on him and his pathetic little group.

Pain seared through her neck and jaw as his foot hit the side of her face, sending her reeling back. Pushing off of the wall, she launched herself at him, snarling and hitting. The whole world was the color of blood. Everything was blood. Instinct and training kept her fighting when all she could see was blood and pain. Hitting, kicking, staggering back or to the side when his blows landed. She was breathing fire and tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the blood on her lips and trickling from her nose. Nothing but violence and the screaming in her head, screaming in her blood for more until it finally consumed her; washing away the confusion and sadness in a blaze of searing pain.

She hit the ground, wincing at the impact against her shoulder and gasping for air even as her leg wrapped around his and knocked him off balance, sending him tumbling down on top of her. They rolled down the alley, clawing and struggling. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized that he was saying her name. Was that her name? No. Her name was Lilah.

"Cara! Stop!"

Twisting away, she rammed her elbow into the side of his neck and head butted him angrily. He recovered in a split second, one hand clamping down on her throat as he pulled her back, holding her down with the weight of his body.

"I'm sorry, Cara," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding in her ears.

The world began to spin, her muscles growing weak. She gasped for air as darkness began closing in. He was still whispering. Stroking her hair soothingly, telling her it would be all right. Everything would be okay. Limp and unable to move, she could only disagree silently. Everything would not be okay. She would not be okay. She was broken; she was ugly. Fury faded away into the dark and she felt the pressure on her neck lessen. He was still holding her, she could still taste blood in her mouth.

"She must have snapped." It was Gunn's voice.

"Who wouldn't?" Gwen was there too. Somewhere in the black with her soft, feminine voice and electric hands.

The ground fell away, she could feel Angel's arms around her, lifting her up and pulling her tightly against his chest. Her world was black. It was better that way, better to be nothing than a failure. She wasn't a good Slayer. She had failed. They had broken her but she had failed. Her duty was to protect innocents. There were no innocents. Her Watcher knew, he could see into her and see how ugly she was. How unfit she was to be a Slayer. No better than the demons she killed. Why were they trying to save her?

"Who is she?" Justine's voice.

"Is she a Slayer?" Someone unfamiliar, maybe the boy with the machete.

"Yes." Finally. Her Watcher; Wesley.

The humiliation was complete. He had seen her. Now he would hate her again. She had lost him. Again. Pulling away from the world, she felt tears slip down her face, leaving hot tracks of salt on her skin.


	36. Past Imperfect

**Past Imperfect  
**

Their routine investigation had turned out to be anything but routine. The night manager who had discovered the bodies had been more than a little terrified when Spike and Gage had questioned him and finding a double set of books with large sums of money changing hands hadn't helped the poor man's temperament. To make matters worse, a group of kids had taken hold of the rumors surrounding the warehouse murders and had started throwing bottles through the windows and screaming about vampires. The whole south of Boston had gone insane in a matter of days and a modern day witch-hunt was on for the underground crowd of undead wannabes. There weren't many and by the time the Mayor got through decrying the moral black hole of today's youth, they had gone into hiding.

The phone calls kept coming in, however, and they were bound to investigate each tip to its inevitably ridiculous conclusion. So and so had a vampire for a downstairs neighbor and one lady hadn't ever seen the guy across the hall in the daylight. It turned out that he worked night shift on the docks and was just a normal guy trying to make a living. He lost count of the number of times he told someone that vampires weren't real. Even if they had populated his dream world for the past several weeks and at least part of him believed that it was possible.

At least the dreams had changed. He was no longer killing people. Now he was running through empty hallways, following the strange voice that haunted his every sleeping and waking moment. She was always ahead of him, taunting, cajoling, seducing him. In some dreams she would turn on him, moods shifting like quicksilver as she became irrational and frighteningly angry. He never saw her but somehow he knew that when he finally did, he would know her. Her every word, every whim, every fanciful description of stars and pixies, was as familiar to him as his own mother.

He brushed off Dr. Coleman by telling her he'd been dreaming about his cases. It wasn't uncommon for police officers to get nightmares and she prescribed him a sedative to help him sleep, with strict orders not to take them more than fourteen days and to try to relax. She was under pressure from Lieutenant Merritt to keep Spike on the case now that it had come under the media's scrutinizing eye. Spike and Gage were the best and the Mayor had demanded that the best be working around the clock to find the monster who had stricken the city's heart with fear. He knew that Gage and the rest of the force were picking up some of the slack he was leaving and he was eternally grateful for their support. Some of them even hoped that he did have some sort of psychic connection to the killer, but they kept it to themselves, unwilling to add more fodder to the daily headlines. The newspapers christened the murderer The Dollhouse Killer, sensationalizing and speculating about motives and suspects. Spike wasn't sure who he wanted to get his hands on more, the killer or the press corps.

Following the doctor's orders, Spike was sitting at home in his apartment listening to the rain pound on his windows and slowly going insane from boredom. The television and radio were glaringly silent because he couldn't find a station that wasn't screaming about the killings. It was probably the first time in his career that he couldn't wait for his six a.m. wake up call when the sanctions would end and Gage would let him get back to work. The hours from eleven at night to six in the morning had become a no-fly zone for anything police related. Spike knew he should be grateful but as he tossed and turned, blinking at the ceiling in the darkness, he wished he had something to take his mind off of his increasingly bizarre life.

The finishing touch was that his king-sized bed now felt horribly empty. He lay awake for hours, one hand on the space beside him, feeling lost and confused. He was nowhere near finding someone to fill that space even if he had wanted to look for a woman. It was inescapably empty and profoundly disheartening. Sometime in the past week, he'd begun to wonder if this was even his life or if he'd just been thrown randomly into someone else's world and expected to make the best of it. More crazy talk from the increasingly unreliable and soon to be ex member of the Boston police department if he didn't get his act together. At Gage's insistence, he'd put in for some time off but it wouldn't come until the Dollhouse Killer's reign of terror had ended. It couldn't come soon enough.

Finally unable to stand the blank sheets beside him, he rolled out of bed and hurriedly dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He wouldn't be working, just going for a walk. In the middle of the night. In the rain. Just a quick walk to let off steam and focus his thoughts. Get them away from the things that went bump in the night and his unexplainable laundry list of psychological problems. Pulling the collar of his jacket up and around his neck, he locked his apartment behind him, almost running in his eagerness to get away from four walls and a ceiling. Fat, heavy raindrops pelted his head and face, soaking his hair in moments and sending rivulets of tepid water down his neck and jacket. He ignored the intrusion and the chill that began to creep into his body. Cold had never really bothered him.

The city was always different in the dead of night. Adding the storm created a feeling of surrealism, a city lost in fog and rain somewhere beside the ocean, as though it was the only remaining bastion of life. Lights blazed defiantly into the dark, raising wavering fists in a gesture indicative of man's survival instinct and exhorting all mankind - do not go gentle into that dark night. Once the rain abated, it would become a glassy paradise of rain-washed freshness and quivering puddles waiting to be splashed and dashed by eager feet or tires. Whether furious or peaceful, the city was alive at night and Spike reveled in the darkness. Breathed it in and expected to fill it infuse every cell of his body until the roots of his bone blond hair turned dark once again and he became one with the night. It was a paradox his mother had never understood. How could the same boy who gave the sun gods a run for their money be the night owl who moved like an alley cat through the shadows? How could he belong in both worlds with ease?

Sidestepping one of the deeper puddles, he pushed deeper into the heart of the city, grateful that the storm had driven the usual hordes of people into the safety of their homes. The truth was that he belonged in both day and night because he belonged to neither of them. He took the darkness into the sun and the light into the darkness. Neither summer nor winter, trapped in the springs and falls of life, he was forever stuck in the waning daylight of evening and the rising sun of dawn. The precious few hours where day and night bled together and became one, where light met dark, and lines were crossed. It was about balance. A balance in nature that had to be maintained at all costs, regardless of the casualties that fell by the wayside. There could be no light without the dark.

Shaking away the too serious train of thought, he stepped into a protective alcove to shake the excess water from his hair and brush at the rivers coursing through the creases in his jacket. It was a beautiful night. Full of wind and passion and life. He could smell it, feel it, breathe it in. Sanctions and house arrest be damned. There was no way he could have stayed indoors on a night like this, not even for his own sanity. Besides, who was he to say that wasn't exactly the medicine he needed. Balm for the soul.

The rain was letting up. Just enough to extend his field of vision a few more feet and turn the heavy drumming above him to a lighthearted patter. In response, the wind was picking up momentum, sweeping in the smell of salt from the Atlantic and the chill of the endless deep that always seemed to accompany the fog. He was tired of Boston, of the hustle and bustle of east coast living. He was tired of seeing death at every turn. What he wanted more than anything, standing just beyond the reach of the rain, was something light and good. Something gleaming.

Effulgent.

A memory stirred, vague and transparent as he sought to dig it out of the depths of his mind where it whispered to him. He had forgotten something important and all of the nightmares, all of the strange happenings, were meant to drag that single memory up and remind him. Of something. Somewhere. But it slunk away into the void before he could grab hold of it and once more, it was lost. He pushed off, back into the night and the rain, hoping that something else would jog the memories loose and finally bring his ghosts to rest. Lay out the simple and logical explanation for his life tumbling head over heels into Bedlam. A moment, a voice, a name that would bring it all into focus and give him the reasons for what he was doing, what he was looking for.

He'd gone a mile, maybe more, passing nightclubs pulsing with music and bars rounding up for closing time. People were beginning to come out into the streets now that the rain had stopped, shaking their umbrellas and finding their way home. Taxis splashed through the puddles as they pulled up the curbs, rounded corners, drove away with their new fare. Off toward families, lovers. He watched them, feeling the loneliness return as a pair of lovers flagged down a cab. They were teasing, touching, obviously anticipating returning home to a waiting bed. It stung just a little, so far out of reach and seemingly impossible. Would he ever have that? Had he ever had that? Past relationships seemed hollow, empty. He'd always known they hadn't been the one but now they seemed utterly meaningless. Almost illusions in their superficiality, like constructs of his own imagination. Maybe he had imagined them. Add another mark to the insanity column.

"Hey there, handsome." A woman sidled out of the shadows, her raincoat barely hiding her provocative outfit. Great. All he needed to make his day complete was a hooker. Her dark hair fell in waves around her face and for a second she seemed familiar.

"Not interested." He tried to move past her.

"Give a girl a chance. Just a taste." She cut him off, still eyeing him suggestively. Her words sounded strange in his ears and set off warning bells in his head. She took a step toward him and to the left, as if she was trying to push him into the alley to his right.

"Not exactly an ideal spot." He raised one eyebrow but let her maneuver him into the darkened corridor. "Can't say I'm much of an up against the wall kind of guy."

"You will be." She purred, reaching out to run her hands over his chest. "This will only hurt for a second."

Her face blurred and he blinked as brown eyes turned amber, ridges appearing over her forehead and the bridge of her nose. Fangs glistened in the dim light as she smiled hungrily. His brain had frozen. _Vampire_. Vampires were real. Oh God. They were real and he'd been dreaming about them, about being a vampire. If they were real, his dreams could be real. He'd been able to brush away the possibility that he had killed those people because it was impossible, vampires weren't real. But she was moving toward him, reaching for his neck and she was going to kill him.

"You could struggle a little bit. It turns me on," she whispered. Her hands were cold against his skin.

His hand moved of its own accord, coming up and wrapping around her neck. Surprise flashed across her features as he pushed her away deliberately and lifted her up off the ground with strength he didn't know he had. Instinct had taken over, numbing his thoughts and leaving him at the mercy of automatic pilot.

"What the fuck?" she gasped, struggling in his grip.

He tossed her away, watching her crumple against the wall. Wood. He needed a stake. Kicking apart an empty packing crate, he grabbed the largest sliver and advanced on the confused vampire. She lashed out at him, catching him in the stomach and sending him stumbling back. He recovered, grabbing her hair as she tried to twist away and slamming her back against the wall.

"Who are you?" she growled.

"Name's Spike."

She blinked once, glancing furtively around for an escape route. "Fuck that. He's dead. And he certainly didn't have a heartbeat."

"What are you talking about?" Spike demanded, raising the makeshift stake threatening. He wasn't surprised. Why wasn't he surprised?

She made a break for it, stopped short by his fist against her jaw and fell back, sliding down the wall with a dazed expression. "I don't know who you are, Hell, I don't know what you are. Just let me go."

"Who's Spike?"

"The vampire. With the chip."

"Vampire. Like you." He wasn't a vampire. That much was certain. Chip?

"Like me. You mental or something?" She was glaring up at him. "Tell you what. We'll forget about me trying to bite you and you let me go."

"You'll kill people," Spike answered, his mind still trying to fit all the pieces together. There was a vampire named Spike. A dead vampire. It had to be a coincidence. Somehow he knew it wasn't.

She rolled her eyes, shifting back to her human face. "Kinda the whole point of being a vampire."

"Raison d'etre," he whispered to no one in particular.

"Whatever. Is that Spanish or something?" Her hand was inching toward a chunk of brick.

She didn't have time to grab hold of the stone before he drove the stake home and she was dissolving into dust before his eyes. Staring at the empty space where she had been, Spike felt numb and hollow. Something was wrong. What if he wasn't crazy? What if they weren't dreams? If they were memories. And if vampires were real, the whole nine yards could be real as well. Witches, werewolves, Slayers. Slayers?

What the hell was a Slayer?

* * *

The InBetweens wasn't the type of place Anya wanted to be forever. Most of the spirits wandering around were still bemoaning what they had or hadn't done and peering through the unnumbered scrying pools to watch their friends and relatives. It reminded her of a gigantic waiting room decorated with white fluffy clouds and annoying people. The purpose of the InBetweens was to find closure, to come to peace with the living before moving on to the other dimensions. Some of the souls had been there longer than Anya had been a vengeance demon and she was so sick of their whining that she was wishing for her old powers back. If they hadn't gotten over it in thousands of years, they weren't going to and she wanted to drop kick their self-pitying asses into the next available portal to a particularly nasty hell dimension. Then again, she was still there.

But she had a job to do and, thankfully, it had just gotten easier. Bridging the gap between life and the InBetweens had been impossible in the old world. Limited to those with abnormal susceptibility to the supernatural and only marginally effective even then. In fact, Anya had resorted to using a small, green-eyed tabby named Bugsy as her go between until she could actually do some damage herself. The problem, as always, was that Xander Harris wasn't cooperating. When had he ever? And he was so hopeless with women that he was doomed unless she stepped in to help.

Taking a deep breath, she wondered if she still needed to breathe now that she was a disembodied spirit, but decided not to test it out just in case, and pushed her way through the mountains of fluffiness to the familiar pool where her fellow conspirators would be waiting. Unlike Anya, they were truly dedicated and never left the side of the pool, always watching over those below them. Anya found constant surveillance not only creepy but entirely boring. The two heads rose briefly and she noted the familiar expressions of exasperated concern. William looked particularly upset and Tara was patting his hand comfortingly.

"Has Xander slept with her yet?" Anya's priority was Xander. Prophecy and destiny be damned. She was going to get him down the aisle with a good woman if it took the rest of eternity.

"We've been watching Spike," Tara answered softly, a little apologetically.

"If he gets himself turned again, I will personally see that he is staked," William fumed, waving at the pool.

"He had to learn about vampires sometime." Anya glanced down to see Spike sitting on the edge of his bed, a sliver of wood in his hand and a blank expression on his face. "He's still breathing."

"And he needed to realize that he still has all the strengths of a vampire. With his mortal memories, he hasn't even thought to try," Tara added, always finding the positive in every situation. "After all, he isn't actually human."

"He's impossible." With a frustrated sigh, William cleared the pool. "I didn't realize it would be this difficult to give him back his memories."

Anya changed the scene to Sunnydale. "You forgot how stubborn he is."

"You have to keep in mind that he's not supposed to be remembering at all." Tara smiled gently. "And with Drusilla's interference, it's got to be hard for him. To know what's real. What isn't. He's learning."

"What if he doesn't find her again? What about Faith?" he asked fretfully, motioning to the image of Sunnydale. "I've been concentrating on Spike and I've neglected her."

"She'll get by. She's tough," Tara assured him.

"Damn." Anya frowned at the pool, seeing Xander sleeping peacefully in his own bed. Alone. "That man is completely hopeless with women."

"I'm sure he just wants to take his time."

"They don't have much time. Now is not a good time to be alone."

"They have enough time." With a gentle brush of Tara's hand, the pool cleared once more.

It was both exciting and terrifying that those she called friends had shown themselves worthy to bear the weight of the world, to carry the future of the Slayers in their hands. The next evolution. A new world meant new power and new strength, it also meant new evil and new enemies. There was nothing as stabilizing as love and those left behind in the mortal world would need all the stability they could find. All said and done, it was more than a little frightening that the fates of billions rested on the Scooby gang's rather precarious love lives.

"I like Jane. She's very nice," William offered. "I think she was a wise choice."

"He needs someone who enjoys life. Who still sees the goodness in the world. I was much too cynical."

"It has been dark for them all." Always diplomatic, William deftly sidestepped another one of Anya's rants.

"And it's going to get darker. That's why we're doing this."

"What of the third Slayer?" William changed the scene to Los Angeles. "Who's watching over her?"

Tara bit her lip nervously. "She's taken care of. I'm not sure how far he'll let her fall before he steps in but we have to believe that he knows what he's doing."

"You can't make an omelet without breaking the eggs." Anya frowned at the image, watching the Slayer brutally snap a vampire's arm, blood spraying over her face as the bone broke through the skin. "Although I'm sure the analogy he would use would be something with weapons and forges. All that fire and pounding makes them stronger or whatever."

"But how is he supposed to find a suitable mate for her?" Wincing at the blatant reference to a sexual relationship, William was grateful that he could no longer blush. "It is difficult to believe that War himself knows the slightest thing about romance and love."

"That's not our problem." Anya shrugged, punching the cloud she was sitting on into a better cushion.

"Who would you put her with, Anya?" Tara asked.

"It has to be someone strong. As strong as she is. A warrior."

"A Champion," William added.

"There aren't many of those left." Tara sighed, gazing sadly at the lost Slayer.

"Especially Champions who can actually have children." Anya cleared the pool. "But Cara is the least of our worries. Have you forgotten that we still have to find someone for Buffy? Considering that her track record is even less fertile than Xander's, we've got our work cut out for us."

"Actually, I do have one suggestion." William glanced away bashfully. "If you would care to hear it."

"As long as he's got live swimmers, we're all ears."

* * *

It sickened Wesley to tie her down. Like clipping an eagle's wings or hobbling a racehorse. Her eyes were still closed, silent tears leaking from the corners as she cried. The phone was heavy in his hands. Heavy with the lies he'd told Iverson. They would be there. Late but there. No, Cara was fine. Just wounded in a fight and needed time to recover. It was half true. Some of the blood that covered her clothes and skin was hers. Some belonged to the vampires she had maimed and a little was Angel's. Fred had cleaned her up as best as she could, working around the restraints, afraid to get anywhere near the Slayer lest she wake up and decide to go for another round of blood sport.

He'd known that Justine was still out with her ragtag band of street fighters, trying to make the world a little safer for people like them, killing demons and vampires the old fashioned way. It no longer stung to see her. No longer produced a tingling sensation in his throat and the self-conscious urge to cover the scar on his neck. Through the years, he had learned the hard way that she was capable of anything and nothing seemed to surprise her. But Cara had. Cara had left Justine's face twisted into an expression of shock and pain. She had seen the face of the one woman she wanted to be and it had horrified her. In a way, it was the most fitting revenge Wesley could have asked for.

Feeling lost and helpless, he sat beside the bed, watching the tears slip down Cara's face, her long fingers resting lightly in his. Life hadn't been easy and it hadn't been pretty since he left England for Sunnydale so many years before. He'd seen darkness and he'd seen pain. He thought he'd seen just how far a Slayer could fall when Faith had tied him to a chair and tortured him. Wrong about that as well. Nothing compared to the brutality he'd witnessed that night. Not trying to kill, just break and mangle and cause as much pain as possible. Eyes burning with rage and blood covering her skin. His heart had ached as his stomach turned. Even Angel was shaken, retreating to his office to nurse his wounds and brood. They had tried to help her and they had nearly killed her. It was possible they'd lost her to insanity forever. His thumb rubbed gentle circles over the back of her hand, trying to comfort her as she lay crying.

"Now we know." Angel's voice was more of a sigh. "What Lilah would be like as a Slayer."

"She was always ruthless," Wesley pointed out, remembering all too well the images of her fighting vampires in the training room that first night. Shooting a vampire point blank in the skull instead of the heart and blowing out the kneecaps of another. She could have dusted them instantly but had opted for immobilization instead. He had hoped it was merely the way they had trained her to use the firearms. No such luck. He couldn't believe she was even human. Not anymore.

"There might not be another option."

"No." Wesley shook his head, refusing to even discuss what he knew Angel was referring to. Cara was still a Slayer and he wouldn't stand by, watching as she was put down like a rabid dog.

"Would you rather have her locked away for life?" Angel took a seat at the bottom of the bed, fresh bruises fading over his cheekbones. "She may never recover and she's dangerous."

With a bitter chuckle, Wesley took her hand, tangling their fingers together. "All Slayers are dangerous, Angel. Part of the job description."

"What she did. What we saw." He paused, looking down at Cara. "I've lived a long time and I've seen a lot of cruelty, I've caused my fair share. She has a taste for it. She enjoys it."

"I can't believe that."

"I saw it in her eyes. It wasn't about being a Slayer or protecting those people. It was because she wanted it. Wanted to cause pain."

"There has to be a way." Not just because he didn't want to fail another Slayer, not just because he didn't want to leave her tied up or lock her away. Everything about her saddened him. Losing her family, what the Council had done, what Lilah had tried to do. The girl hadn't had a chance and he was the one who had sent her into the lion's den. There had to be another way.

"And if Lilah's right?" If they had no choice but to let her finish, let Lilah take over Cara's body. It still meant death, still meant that Wesley would lose her.

"She's not." He knew Lilah was a gambler and he'd called her bluffs enough times to know that she always skirted the edge of what she could actually pull off. She couldn't be right, he wouldn't let her be right.

"Get some sleep, Wes. It's been a long couple of days." Angel's hand rested briefly on his shoulder before he left the room soundlessly.

"We'll find a way, Cara. I promise." He brushed away her tears carefully, noting the slight fluttering of her eyelashes. For a moment he hoped that she would awaken but her breathing stayed slow and even and her eyes stayed shut. He picked up the book he had brought up and opened it tiredly. It might help to hear someone's voice. He was willing to try.

"To see a world in a grain of sand,

and a heaven in a wildflower,

hold infinity in the palm of your hand

and eternity in an hour.

The bat that flits at close of eve

has left the brain that won't believe.

The owl calls upon the night

speaks the unbeliever's fright."

It was a beautiful poem. Wesley had always loved the works of William Blake; he had no one at Angel Investigations to share them with. Anything without equations couldn't hold Fred's attention and Lilah had been too practical for poetry. Angel read the classics but had never favored Blake. Gunn? That was a laugh. Lorne would try to put the words to music, probably a salsa beat, and add some percussion. The only option left was reading aloud to an unconscious Slayer.

"Joy and woe are woven fine,

a clothing for the soul divine;

under every grief and pine

runs a joy with silken twine.

Every tear from every eye

becomes a babe in Eternity."

On the plus side, if he really searched for any positive results of the entire debacle, Lilah's memories would undoubtedly provide all the information Cara would need about sex. Taking Wesley off the hook for the birds and the bees talk when Iverson tried to explain that Cara needed to think about having children. To save the Slayer line, to save the world. He smiled a little, involuntarily, at the sheer audacity of the Council asking the Slayers to bear children. They were unbelievably lucky to even have three Slayers old enough to handle the responsibility of motherhood. If Cara had been fifteen rather than eighteen or if Buffy and Faith were still in their late teens, it would have been a disaster.

"The bleat, bark, bellow, and roar

are waves that beat on Heaven's shore.

He who doubts from what he sees

will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the Sun and Moon should doubt,

they'd immediately go out.

God appears, and God is light,

to those poor souls who dwell in Night;

but does a Human Form display

to those who dwell in realms of Day."

Her tears had stopped, her breathing still even and deep. Dark bruises blossomed over tanned skin along her jaw and circling her neck where Angel had choked her. Pausing his reading to stare and wonder, was there anything he could have done? Could do now to help her? To fix the nightmare she was living. Perhaps Angel was right about the bloodlust, the sadism he thought he'd seen in her eyes. Wesley didn't want to believe it. She was a Slayer and a certain amount of bloodlust was expected. He had to believe that the unchecked cruelty came from being subjected to Lilah's memories. From Wolfram and Hart and years of being subservient, helpless, trapped in a world where she didn't belong with people she hated. That had to be the root of the problem. Lilah. Never had he regretted his tryst with her as much as he did that moment, sitting beside his Slayer and praying to whoever was listening that he would be able to save her.

Rubbing his weary eyes, he dimmed the lamp and moved to stand up. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his and he froze, waiting, not breathing, for any sign that she was aware of his presence. Nothing. Gently, he tried to disentangle his hand from hers. Her grip tightened again, holding him there. Smiling sadly, he reached down to stroke the back of her hand, setting his book aside.

"I'll be right back," he whispered. This time, she let him pull free.

Closing the door quietly, he moved around to the other side of the bed and sat down. Angel's words were ringing in his ears as he unlaced his boots and set them neatly on the floor, leaning back slowly to jar her as little as possible. In the faint light of the lamp, her bruises seemed darker and he noticed heavy circles under her eyes. Stretching out beside her, he brushed her hair away from her forehead, really noticing for the first time that it fell past her shoulders. He wasn't surprised. Of course Lilah would have fixed whatever she felt were cosmetic flaws. Trailing his fingers lightly down her right arm, he tried to recall where her scars had been. He remembered his horror when he had first seen them, almost every inch of her skin marred with scars, bruises, healing cuts. Five feet ten inches of walking battle wounds, shoulders proudly set and the look of war in her eyes. Tall, powerfully built, every movement giving the impression of premeditation and coiled tension. Fred looked emaciated and frail beside the Slayer while Gwen's femininity provided a striking contrast to Cara's carved muscles.

She wasn't beautiful in the traditional sense. Large brown eyes were too alert and too sharp, distracting and unnerving as she was constantly watching and assessing the threat level. There was a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, tapering out to her cheekbones. Asleep, the angular planes of her face seemed to soften and she didn't look as fierce. Taken one by one, her features were attractive. Good eyes, full lips, elegant lines through her jaw and shoulders. Put together, she was a warrior maiden, hard and severe. Lightly dragging his fingers through her hair, he fanned the thick waves over the pillow. Longer hair eased the sharpness of her chiseled features, made them more feminine.

Laying his head down on the pillow, he took a deep breath and tried to relax. If she felt more secure with him beside her then he would stay at her side. She had trusted him, he had trusted Lilah, and Cara had paid for the mistake. He wasn't about to abandon her now and he would find a way to help her even if he had to tears down the very pillars of heaven to do it. So young, so innocent. She was the most innocent thing he had seen in years, her blind devotion to duty had kept her from the ugliest moments of mankind. Until now. In a way, he agreed with what the Council had done because it meant that she would never have known disillusionment, never realized the flaws of the people she was protecting. Now she would. Now she would know in excruciating detail the horror human beings were capable of. It was enough to make even the strongest lose their minds.

"It has been so dark," he whispered, more to himself than Cara, and reached out to stroke her hand lightly. "I can only imagine what you've seen. What you've lived." He didn't even know if she realized how hard, how tragic her short life had been. To her it was just life. It was the way things were. She didn't know any other way to live.

Tracing the bruises on her neck lightly, he found himself wishing they had found another way. That they had remembered to bring a tranquilizer gun, that she hadn't attacked Angel, forcing him to fight back and immobilize her. Watching the vampire's hand close around her throat had been one of the most terrifying moments of Wesley's life, trusting Angel but still afraid that he wouldn't pull away in time, afraid of losing her. Absently, he smoothed a tear in the fabric of her t-shirt and made a mental note to find a replacement. He didn't know how long they would be in Sunnydale and he doubted that any of Buffy's clothing would fit Cara.

Stifling a yawn, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep despite his fatigue. Too worried. Too tired to sleep. Listening to the soft whisper of her breath as she exhaled. Turning his head to the side, he watched her chest rise and fall rhythmically. He knew what Lilah had tried to do, understood that it was more than just her desire for a new body, more than just wanting to be alive again. Her questions about Cara had confirmed his suspicions. He looked away.

Of course he had noticed. A man would have to be blind not to notice. Full breasts, narrow waist, and legs worthy of a pin up calendar. If she had a flaw, it was the too sharp definition of her muscles from endless days of fighting. He was a man; flesh, blood, and certainly not blind. But Cara was his Slayer and that was a line never to be crossed regardless of his physical reaction to her curves. The utter lack of femininity helped, her behavior and attitude more conducive to respect than lust.

Watchers were doomed to remain alone. He'd known that when he had agreed to take charge of Cara, had told Mariata as much when they had gone their separate ways. As long as Cara was alive, she was his one and only priority. To aid and train his Slayer, to keep her breathing and fighting as long as possible. He wished Giles could be there to help him, to tell him how to keep his wits about him. How had Giles managed all those years alone? How had he managed to earn Buffy's trust and respect? How was he supposed to fix this?

"It will be all right." He was lying but he didn't know what else to say. He didn't know how to give her hope, to tell her how to hold on and fight back. He was completely unprepared for this and didn't have the faintest idea what she needed. What he could possibly to do help her. There weren't books he could search for the answers or passages he could read for ideas or solutions. Just a young girl facing a Cruciamentum of Lilah's making rather than the Council's. At least the new Council had put a stop to that barbaric practice. Small miracles.

His breath stopped in his throat when he saw her eyelashes flutter and open. Slowly, her head turned and her dark eyes found him. He searched them for any sign of the violence Angel had seen. Any hint that she was about to attack and possibly try to kill him. There was nothing but sadness and confusion. He tried to smile encouragingly.

"Did I hurt him?" Her voice was harsh from the bruising on her throat.

"He'll mend." His heart broke a little, filling with pain for her and anger at Lilah. She had been violated, mentally and emotionally raped, and her first concern was if she'd hurt Angel.

"Who am I?" She sounded lost and afraid.

"Cara Sewell. You're a Vampire Slayer from York, England."

"England." Barely a whisper, she blinked slowly and the corners of her lips turned upwards. "I remember England."

"Do you know who I am?"

She watched him intently for a moment. "Watcher."

"Yes. I'm your Watcher." He couldn't begin to imagine what she was seeing, what memories came to mind as she looked at him. For all he knew, she could be reliving Lilah's memories of having sex with him. It was a fairly daunting possibility. She shivered, wrists jerking against the restraints before she realized she was tied down. Sitting up swiftly, he pulled the blanket from the end of the bed and unfolded it over her.

"Thank you."

"Let me know if you need anything." She flinched as his fingers touched her shoulder. Moving away from her, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling foolish for wanting to stay beside her instead of in the chair.

"Please. Stay." Her voice was hollow, empty; her eyes blank, vacantly staring up at him as though she had nothing left inside of her. No life, no soul. Just blood, muscles, bones. A shell made of skin and nerves. He wondered if she would collapse under the weight of his fingers, fall to pieces if he laid his palm lightly against her stomach or chest. Would she break if he touched her?

Nodding faintly, he laid down beside her, tucking the blanket gently around her shoulders and feeling strangely awkward. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to kiss her forehead and tell her goodnight or just lie down and sleep. Should he ask her about what she remembered? Would it be best to get her talking about what had happened in the alley? In the end, unable to decide on a course of action, he remained silent. She was still shivering despite the blanket and he reached up, testing her forehead for a fever. Her skin was cool against his fingertips.

"Are you cold?"

"I don't know." Came her toneless answer. Did she remember what it felt like to be warm?

"I won't hurt you." He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to reassure her but decided it had been the right thing to do as he moved closer, feeling her tense as his chest touched her side. Soothingly, he rubbed her arm and slowly fit his body against hers, pulling the blanket over both of them.

Several tense minutes later he was beginning to think he'd made another mistake when he noticed that her breathing had evened and her muscles had relaxed. Slipping his arm around her waist, he closed his eyes wearily. At least she had stopped shivering, his body heat finally warming her enough to lull her to sleep. Briefly he wondered how he would explain it if one of the gang opened the door in the morning to find him in the bed, Cara in his arms. Too tired to care; he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. All that mattered now was that she felt safe. She was protected.

* * *

The trap was set, ready and waiting to snap its jaws and bring Adrian Pascal closer to his dream of the perfect soldier. The perfect army. There was only so much you could do with a man, so far you could push until the mind snapped and left only a mess to be cleaned up. All this time, the answer had lay hidden in a gene sequence carried by three little girls. Three women now. If only he had been able to get some of the carriers before they were killed. It wasn't that he hadn't tried. Several bodies of people known to carry the Slayer genes had been brought into the labs, enough to start the sequence comparisons against normal DNA to determine which pairs were responsible for strength and speed beyond human abilities. All they needed was a way to activate the genes on command and he could build himself an army of Slayers.

It would take years, perhaps more than he had left. He was willing to wait. What he wasn't willing to do was let three females stay in control of his future and his dreams. Women weren't reliable. They were emotional, irresponsible, and tended to be overprotective when it came to children. Riley Finn's wife was all the proof he needed. She had come in, eyes flashing and temper flaring, talking about motherhood and raising children. It was all nonsense.

He had played along with the Council, realizing at once that Iverson was merely a figurehead. The Slayers had the power and as soon as Pascal had the Slayers, he would have the power. The deals had been drafted and he would present them with the briefs that afternoon. According to the clock next to his bed, it was just past dawn now. Due to unforeseen complications in Los Angeles, the third Slayer would not arrive in Sunnydale until later in the day, pushing the meeting back several hours. More proof that dealing with women was impossible. They were incapable of punctuality. But he had smiled and rearranged his plans without complaint.

They had to enter the compound willingly, unsuspecting and unprepared, for his plan to work. Once inside, he had the men and the chemicals necessary to render a Slayer helpless. By the time the outside world began to miss them, he would have what he wanted and there would be no turning back. He would take his chances with Faith, still unsure about her stability. In this race, that fact that she wasn't a prize brood mare didn't matter. Eggs were eggs and genetics were genetics. By the time he got done with the offspring, his dreams would be coming true.

If science was in the ballpark and each Slayer had near a million eggs locked away inside her body, then he had a nearly unlimited supply of genetic material to shape to his purposes. Trigger the Slayer genes, tamper with a few more. His scientists were waiting, deep in the hollow of the earth, to begin the ultimate challenge. Create the perfect being. They had been working on it for years using recombinant DNA, trying to insert reptile, avian, feline, bits and pieces of half a dozen other species. Always running into the limits of the human body. That obstacle would be torn away with the single strand of twisted nucleic acids that made these women different. Accelerated healing capabilities, strength. Power.

The research possibilities were endless. No one had ever studied a Slayer. Were they immune to diseases that cut down normal human beings? Poisons? Did they have higher pain tolerances? Just how much could they endure? It was unexplored territory and Pascal was determined to plumb its depths. The most likely candidate for experimentation was the third Slayer, already stripped of anything that might get in the way of testing. No ties to the world, no friends, no family. No one to wonder what had happened to her with she was swallowed up by his world.

Of course, he expected them to be angry when they realized what had happened. He didn't care. Once they left the compound, he would have the only thing that made them valuable. Pat their heads and tell them the third Slayer was getting the reconditioning she needed. Play nice. If they were typical women, they wouldn't even notice the laser incisions until he, the Slayer, and the eggs were long gone. Money could smooth over whatever bumps arose and silence their complaints. There was always adoption if they really wanted children. He doubted they'd live long enough to make it through the red tape.

Finn had warned him that they were difficult to work with, Iverson had concurred, citing instances of Buffy Summers' insubordination. Pascal wasn't worried. He had several dozen fully armed men waiting for them and tranquilizers strong enough to fell an elephant in one shot. The Slayers wouldn't harm the men. Iverson had assured him that they would be in no danger. They had a noble, if misguided, conviction that harming their fellow man was to be avoided at all costs. Even the rogue Slayer, Faith, was reformed from her wild days. Such a pity. He might have been able to use her talents. It didn't matter now. Everything was going according to plan. Within twenty-four hours he would be across the country with his precious cargo and the two remaining Slayers would be well paid to do exactly what they were doing. In his mind, it was a perfectly fair trade.

And it was the only way he would be able to rid the earth of the undead vermin once and for all. One Slayer? Even three couldn't be expected to put a dent in the wave of evil washing over the civilized world. With a few hundred thousand Slayers, he'd be able to wipe them out and reclaim the night. Make it safe for human beings once more. For his grandchildren.

He'd seen his first vampire when he was a raw recruit, barely shaving and voice still cracking from puberty. Of course, it had taken years for him to reconcile what he knew he'd seen with what he refused to believe. By then he'd managed to move up in the ranks and found himself in one of the hunting squads where he was let in on the secret. Vampires were real. There were more than just vampires too. Evil wore a million masks but it could never truly hide. He'd made it his life's ambition to finally squash it out, destroy and strip the world of every unclean thing. And then, he might just move on to better and bigger things. Maybe eradicate crime, wash the slate clean of hate and prejudice. With an army of Slayers, the world would be at his fingertips.


	37. If You Give A Slayer A Cookie

**If You Give A Slayer A Cookie**

The assignment to Sunnydale was the chance of a lifetime for Garrett Johnson. A chance to get in a few hits to the monsters under the bed and hiding in the closets, the creatures he'd been hesitant to believe in until he'd seen them with his own eyes. Recruited by Riley Finn for the special branch of the Marines that fought demons, he'd almost peed his pants the first time he'd fought a vampire. Afterwards, still shaken and reeling, he'd realized that he was fighting in the only war that mattered. They carried a burden of knowledge, a challenge of protection that made everything else seem like playing with G.I. Joes. Then he learned about Slayers and Hellmouths. Now he was here, on the worst Hellmouth of them all, and about to meet not one but three Slayers. It was unbelievable. He felt like a kid in a candy store.

"Here they come." The second guard, a beefy soldier the men called Tango, moved to stand in front of the door.

There were five in the group. Two men, three women. Garrett knew who they were from their pictures and descriptions in the dossiers. Rupert Giles was the Watcher in charge of Buffy Summers and would serve as the official ambassador from the Watcher's Council. Faith was the Slayer who'd spent a few years in prison for murder. She had no Watcher; none of them were willing to take up the challenge. Watching the Slayers move reminded him of the jungle, panthers and jaguars creeping stealthily on padded feet. They didn't walk. They hunted. No picture had been provided of the third Slayer or her Watcher, only a list of vitals and a vague description.

Despite her slender stature and California blond hair, Buffy was the most commanding, with a take-charge attitude that left no questions. No wonder General Pascal had been told they were hard to work with. Garrett doubted she would do anything she didn't want to and the fact that she could snap human bones without breaking a sweat was enough to keep him a few wary steps away from her. Faith was a couple inches taller, dark hair and dark eyes, and the definition of voluptuous. They had been instructed to handle her firmly, but carefully, as she was reported to have trouble with authority figures. All in all, he wasn't sure what the General expected to get out of the meeting with two women obviously accustomed to making and breaking their own rules. Point of fact, the remaining two members of the group were civilians that Buffy Summers had insisted be present when she met General Pascal: Willow Rosenberg and Alexander Harris.

"Prime real estate," Tango commented softly. "Bet they're fucking amazing in the sack."

"You'll never find out." Garrett almost rolled his eyes, unable to deny that he'd been thinking the same thing. He shifted his grip and threw Tango a warning glance. "Don't forget they can kick your ass into the middle of next week."

"Yeah." He didn't sound convinced. Some of the men still couldn't grasp the concept of a Slayer. Garrett wasn't sure he understood either. They were strong, they were fast, that much he knew, but he couldn't help wondering just how much they were capable of.

As soon as the group was within range, they both snapped to attention. "Welcome to Genesis."

"Do you always have to name them something strange?" Buffy asked. "I mean, first it was the Initiative. Which was all double meaning-y and clever, taking the Initiative, blah blah blah. Why don't you ever just call it the Base? Or Headquarters. Something army-ish."

Garrett blinked in surprise. "Please step up to the door and place your hand on the screen." He watched as she rolled her eyes but complied with his command grudgingly. She made no attempt to hide how ridiculous she felt the precautions were. Granted, he'd read the file about the Initiative and knew that she had no reason to show them anything but contempt. It still chaffed to see her obvious disdain.

"Cara and Mr. Wyndam-Pryce are a few minutes behind us," Rupert Giles added as he stepped up to press his hand against the screen. "Should we wait for them?"

"That won't be necessary, sir." Garrett pressed the intercom to let the men inside know the Slayers were entering the base. "We'll accompany them to the conference room when they arrive."

Once all hands had been scanned and their prints recorded, the steel door slid open and he motioned for them to enter the corridor. Two men were waiting inside to lead them through the tunnels and hallways to the meeting room where the General, Agent Finn, and Head Watcher were waiting. Tango leered without shame as he watched them walk away, shaking his head when the door slid shut and settling into a more comfortable position. Propping his gun against the side of the entrance tower, he fished through his pockets for a cigarette and ignored the pointed look from Garrett.

"Wonder if the third one's anything like those two," he mused, blowing smoke toward the deep blue sky. "The blond? God, what I wouldn't give to have that mouth suck me off."

"Shut up."

"A little on the skinny side. Other one's got a better rack."

"Get your head out of the fucking gutter, man. They're not gonna give you the time of day."

Tango raised one eyebrow. "Not what I heard. 'Bout the third one anyway. Fuck, I hope she's as hot as the others."

Shifting uneasily, Garrett turned toward Tango and the door, waving smoke away from his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Brass is gonna keep the third one." A lazy smile spread across his lips. "Least that's what I heard. Strip down the first two, keep a few souvenirs and head back east. Slayer number three is wide open."

"Whatever."

"I shit you not." Tango snuffed the cigarette in the grass. "Pascal wants her to do all sorts of experiments on her. Find out what makes her tick."

"Endurance tests, yeah. Heard about that. Still a snowball in Hell's chance that you'd get a piece."

"Way I figure it, they can't be runnin' tests on her 24-7. Gotta have some down time." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Couple of the boys on guard duty already have the shit to keep her dosed and harmless. Like taking candy from a baby."

Garrett felt his blood run cold. "That's wrong."

"Who cares, Johnson? She's anything like those two and it'll be fucking worth it." Another careless shrug. "Barrett and Young figure they'll be riding her like a bitch in heat every chance they get. Might as well join the fun while she's here."

"They've got it all planned out." To say he wasn't tempted by the Slayers would be an outright lie. To pretend that what Tango was talking about didn't sicken him would be a worse lie.

"Just another endurance test, man." Grinning wickedly, Tango snorted and took a seat beside the door to light another cigarette. "Too bad he's not keeping all three of 'em. No problem getting the bitches knocked up if he'd just let us have a go."

"You're a piece of shit, Tango." Garrett turned away, unable to hide the disgust on his face. He couldn't wait until the third Slayer showed up and he could end his shift of guard duty, thankfully escaping the bastard's foul company. Most of the men were dedicated and had, at the very least, a set of bare bones ethics; leaving crude and amoral to the handful who never seemed to entertain a single thought above their belts. How an asshole like Tango managed to keep it in his pants long enough to get anywhere in life was a complete mystery to Garrett.

Staring out at the clearing in the forest, he tried to ignore the stench of cigarette smoke and hoped the rumors were just that, rumors; hoped that the third Slayer could take care of herself. A nagging voice whispered that he should take Tango's words more seriously even if the man was all bark and no bite. He liked to talk, particularly about women and violence, usually in the same sentence. But Garrett had never heard of him making good on any of the talk. It was just locker room bragging about conquests and testosterone, only Tango never left the locker room behind. A girl with inhuman strength and speed should be able to handle morons like Barrett and Young. Even so, the tranquilizer gun felt oddly heavy in his belt and the vials of liquid were burning through their cases.

They'd been told that the Slayers wouldn't harm them but had been armed just in case. In case of what? In case the women fought back against a man like Tango and had to be restrained? Their orders were to secure the perimeter once the Slayers were safely inside and begin outer lock down of the base. He hesitated. The hallways were designed to close and seal, preventing anything from getting in or out of the base until the safe codes were given. It was broad daylight and they were unlikely to be attacked. The only reason to seal the doors would be to keep those inside from getting out. Until General Pascal gave the word, the three Slayers, their Watchers, and the two civilians would be stuck inside with the rest of the men.

Trapped.

He didn't know how or from who Tango got his gossip but he'd been right in the past. Right about a double raid in Brazil when the rest of the men hadn't been given the orders until they were in the field, right about his team coming to Sunnydale.

"What about the civilians?" Garrett turned back to his disgusting companion. "Heard anything about them?"

"Who knows? Pascal wasn't too happy about them being here. Probably just send 'em right back out again." He waved toward the door, eyeing it expectantly. "He could just get rid of them. Dump the bodies in the forest maybe."

"Where'd you hear this crap?"

"Snapper's bunk is next to the air ducts. Voices carry through that thing like a telephone. Heard the General talking with Lee about a special containment team, keeping the Slayers confined 'til he was done with them."

Garrett was silent. He had to believe that whatever General Pascal was planning, it was for the best. That it was the optimum solution. Still. It didn't make any sense to bring the teams here for training only to trap the very people who would be training them. Snapper must have heard wrong. Maybe the General had been referring to the conference itself. Then why the tranquilizers? Why arm the men against them unless there was a chance that the Slayers would have to fight their way out of the compound? Uneasiness coiled in his stomach like a snake, hissing and wiggling as he scanned the area for any sign of the third Slayer and her Watcher. He'd been in the group long enough to know that they weren't always told the whole truth, that information was kept from them, often for their own safety or because they didn't need to know all the details to get the job done. Even before he'd joined, he'd believed that the government and the military kept secrets. He accepted it. By the very nature of what they fought against, there had to be a certain level of secrecy.

It had to be Tango's repulsive and suggestive bragging that was bothering him. The utter lack of consideration for women who deserved respect and admiration. They were soldiers, fighting on the same side in the battle against evil crawling over the earth at night. It was just like Tango to view them as only useful for sexual gratification, typical of his small mind and questionable intelligence. And these women deserved more than that. They deserved respect, even awe, for what they did every day, what they fought and lived with, the burden laid on their shoulders.

"Two o'clock," he announced as two figures appeared, turning the corner and moving swiftly toward the entrance. Tango clambered to his feet and retrieved his firearm, straining to get a good look at the last Slayer.

"Sure that's even a woman?"

Garrett ground his teeth together to keep from snapping at the man. He had to agree that there was nothing feminine about the third Slayer. No sway in her hips as she walked, no soft pastels or high-heeled boots. A few inches shorter than her Watcher, she was closer to what he had expected a Slayer to be. Dark hair pulled back into a severe braid, well toned arms and shoulders, and legs like a thoroughbred. She was all business.

"Bastard would choose the fucking ugly duckling," Tango muttered with a sigh. "Guess it won't matter with the lights out."

He didn't have time for a response before they were there, standing in front of him, and the girl's large brown eyes were piercing through him as though she was trying to rip his soul to shreds with a glance. There wasn't a single doubt in his mind that if he held her gaze, let those dark eyes search through him, she'd be able to read his thoughts. It was disconcerting. At any moment, he expected her to smile wide and crow _'Here's Johnny_', possibly followed by a witch's cackle and flying away on a broomstick. His voice was telling them to press their hands against the screen and he was punching in the code to open the door. Then he would lead them into the corridor and take them to the conference room. Damn. She was still looking at him with those creepy eyes. Dark brown doe eyes that should have been soft and beautiful instead of cold and hard.

Poe's Telltale Heart had nothing on her eyes. He could feel them on the back of his neck as he took the lead, hands sweating and his grip on the gun becoming precarious. Inside his chest, his own heart was pounding like a frightened animal trying to escape. She knew. She had to know. About Tango and his plan to drug her up, tie her down, and use her like a plow horse until she broke. The other Slayers had been different. All that power wrapped in a deceptively small, alluringly beautiful package, like poisonous flowers waiting for unsuspecting insects. They were hidden weapons, camouflaged and masked so their enemies wouldn't know until it was too late that they had bitten off more than they could chew. But the third Slayer screamed danger like a highway billboard, announcing with every inch of her body that she was not to be taken lightly. He glanced back nervously, swallowing when he saw that she was still watching him intently. Tango was bringing up the rear, his eyes on her ass as she walked and his expression halfway between disappointment and lust.

They passed the first checkpoint and a heavy steel door hissed shut behind them, beginning the process of sealing everyone inside the base. The Slayer stopped suddenly, almost tripping her Watcher and Tango. Her heavy braid swung across her shoulders as she searched the hallway, eyes moving from the door to Garrett and back again.

"Why?" she demanded, her voice clear and firm.

"Standard procedure," Garrett replied with only the slightest hitch in his voice. "The corridors seal to protect the compound from attack."

"What attacks in the middle of the afternoon?"

His gaze darted involuntarily to Tango, remembering the whispered rumors of containment teams. In the second it took him to formulate the command to keep moving, the Slayer reached back and took hold of the barrel of Tango's rifle. Twisting it to the side, she slammed the butt into his stomach and yanked it roughly out of his hands. Bone cracked as the metal struck his jaw and Garrett watched helplessly as his companion crumpled to the ground, gun spinning in her hands as she turned on him. They weren't supposed to attack humans. Somehow he didn't think she cared.

He reached for his gun instinctively, grunting as her hand caught the barrel and pushed him backwards. Off balance, he stumbled and her foot connected with the side of his knee, sending him to the floor as pain sizzled down his leg. His hand shot toward the tranquilizer gun on his belt, stopping when the cool metal of Tango's gun brushed against his forehead. One finger resting on the trigger, she smiled and he froze, staring up into the barrel of the gun.

"Stick me with that thing, Watcher and I redecorate the hallway with his brain."

Garrett's eyes flicked to the Watcher's hands, noticing the gleam of a hypodermic needle. It didn't make him feel any better. If her Watcher was carrying tranquilizers then the rest of the world was in deep shit. The man raised his hands slowly, holding the syringe between his thumb and first finger.

"Just relax, Cara." His smooth, English voice was tired. Garrett could tell he was still looking for a way to get the gun out of her hands and the needle into her skin, inching forward to find a better position. The man had guts. Garrett was glued to the floor, not wanting to find out just how fast or how strong a Slayer was.

"Give me the needle," she ordered sharply.

When he didn't, she latched onto his wrist with her right hand and yanked him forward, one knee connecting with his stomach. Air rushed out of the man's chest with a whoosh as he doubled over and winced as she twisted his arm, the syringe clattering to the ground. Still facing the wrong end of a gun, Garrett held his breath and edged his hand slightly toward the tranquilizer gun. She backhanded her Watcher, knocking him against the wall. In one smooth motion she scooped up the needle and buried it in the man's thigh, pushing the plunger only halfway before she pulled it out. Glass shattered under her boot as she crushed it, spilling the rest of the liquid onto the tiles. His fingers brushed against the edge of the gun.

"Don't even think about it."

The rifle in her hands flipped around and the blunt end sideswiped his face, stinging skin and knocking a couple teeth loose in the back. With strong, efficient hands, she disarmed him completely, unbuckling the utility belt from his waist and wrapping it around her own. His rifle was slung over her shoulder next to Tango's and the knife buckled to his calf was stripped away.

"You won't get out." He told her as she checked on her Watcher, finding the man's pulse and easing him gently into a more comfortable position on the floor. Gently probing his wounded knee, he grimaced at the pain radiating through his leg. Walking was no longer a viable option.

Cold brown eyes turned back to him and this time he saw sadness in them. "Not looking to get out."

"What are you going to do?"

"How many men are here?"

Garrett shrugged, tensed for a blow or a bullet as she stood up. He couldn't take her. If he was lucky, she wouldn't kill him and he'd be able to get a warning out to the base. Psychotic Slayer on the loose. It sounded like something out of a bad horror movie.

"What would you do with three Slayers?" she asked suddenly, looking down at him curiously. "Invite them for tea? Pat them on the head and congratulate them for keeping the world safe?"

He didn't answer. Tango's words had planted the seeds of doubt and brought the inconsistencies of his orders into the light. He could dismiss them as coincidence. Sealing the compound and locking the Slayers inside could be insurance that they were protected during the conference. Tranquilizers could be a precautionary measure against a woman with superhuman strength and violent tendencies. From his vantage point on the floor, it looked as though they hadn't done enough to prepare for the Slayers. He just had to keep her talking until someone in security noticed the disaster in the hallway.

"Probably not," she answered her own question and crouched down beside him. "Which would you rather have? A woman who doesn't do what she's told or a million eggs just waiting to grow up into good little soldiers. It's not a trick question. Just simple cost benefit analysis."

"You're making a big mistake."

"Am I? It's what I'd do." The smile widened. "Exactly what I'd do. In fact, I'd probably keep one of them just to cut her open and see how she works. And of all the Slayers, which one would I choose? The one with no family and no friends." He tried not to waver under the weight of her gaze. "Or rather, it's what Lilah would do. With more finesse of course. You really are a bunch of amateurs."

He didn't ask who Lilah was, didn't really want to know. They should have arrived by now. Security would be checking the monitors and they would be on their way. Searching his brain for something to ask her, he wished he'd been trained as a hostage negotiator instead of the explosives unit. Were the other two like this? They had seemed normal. This girl was fucking crazy.

"Don't worry, they're coming. Five, six maybe. Now which gun should I use?" Eyes gleaming with something that chilled Garrett to the bone, she glanced between the rifle and the handgun. "To kill or not to kill, that is the question. I'm a Slayer. It's what I do. Of course, not usually humans, but I could probably make an exception just this once."

Garrett kept his mouth shut. Whichever she chose, he would be the first to go.

"If the rest of them are cowards like you, this should be easy. You didn't even put up a fight." The Slayer grinned. "Of course, I'm sure you've been instructed not to kill me because, let's face it, I'm a lot more valuable than you are."

"Bitch." It was barely audible, just a hiss between his teeth. He couldn't deny that he hadn't really tried and he couldn't even give her a good reason why not. Maybe because he wanted to believe that she wasn't actually going to kill anyone or that he was afraid Tango was spinning more than just locker room fantasies. Maybe he believed her, maybe it was a trap. Right or wrong, she was still a bitch.

"And the tin soldier actually has a spine. Amazing."

Metal clicked against metal as she reached out, catching his jaw roughly in one hand and pressing a harsh kiss against his lips. He could hear the footsteps down the hallway, moving quickly toward them. She pulled back, fingers leaving bruises on his skin. Half expecting her to snap his neck, he met her eyes defiantly. The last thing he saw was her fist meeting his jaw, shooting stars filling his vision as pain shorted out his senses. Struggling to retain his rapidly escaping consciousness, he heard the snap of a magazine sliding into one of the assault rifles. She'd made her choice.

* * *

"What's going on?" Buffy's voice had lost the edge of good will that it had held the last week and her arms were crossed defiantly over her chest as she stared down the General.

Faith was silently cheering and taking a quick head count. She could take the three commandos around her and was pretty sure Buffy could handle the other three. Even Giles and Xander could do some damage if pushed into a fight and there was a thrill of excitement as she imagined what Willow would be able to do if it came down to breaking out of command central. The only real threat was the tranquilizer guns. It would take some fancy footwork to keep out of the line of fire, but Faith figured it was do-able as long as there were just the six soldier boys. General Pascal looked pissed off, Riley was alternating between glaring daggers at the General and sending pleading looks their way that begged them to believe he'd had nothing to do with it. Most interestingly, Iverson looked ready to vault over the expensive wood table and take out the General himself.

Local forecast? Violent.

Buffy scowled angrily at the men. "I really don't like to repeat myself."

"I don't expect you to understand." General Pascal settled into his leather chair.

"You mean getting stabbed in the back? 'Cause I've got that down. Riley could probably tell you how well it went last time and if you think it's going to be any different, you're in for a big surprise."

Cold blue eyes flicked between Buffy and Faith. "It's quite simple, Miss Summers. We cannot allow the future of the Slayers to rest solely in your hands. Your unstable and unpredictable."

"Can we get the fuck out of here now, B?" Faith cracked the knuckles of her right hand as she stood up. "Think I've heard everything I need to know."

"I can't let you leave." Pascal motioned with one hand and another half dozen filed through the doorway. "I can assure you that you will be taken care of, adequately compensated afterwards, and that you won't feel a thing."

"And I can assure you that this is going to hurt a lot." Buffy stepped back, putting distance between her and the men. "Willow?"

Willow opened her mouth to respond, eyes widening for a split second before she crumpled to the floor. Buffy pushed away from the table, hurrying to Willow's side and checking her pulse. A small chrome dart protruded from her back. Angrily, Buffy pulled it out and threw it across the room. Easing Willow's unconscious form into a chair behind her and safely away from any fighting that might occur, she took a single angry step toward the bastard who had shot the dart. It was one thing to attack her and quite another to go after the only friends she had ever known.

"Buffy." Giles' tone stopped her in her tracks and she settled for a furious glare.

"Now you've seen how quickly the drugs take effect. My men are excellent marksmen and I have no doubt that they will be able to handle you." Pascal stood up slowly, hands resting lightly on the table. "It was my hope that this could be done without violence."

"Somehow I doubt that," Iverson remarked dryly, glancing around the room. "Why else would you arm your men?"

"They're soldiers, Mr. Iverson. They're always armed."

"Sir?" Another man stepped through the doorway. Two more followed him, carrying a barely conscious Wesley Wyndam-Pryce into the conference room and dumping him unceremoniously into a chair. "We have a problem."

"What's going on?" Pascal demanded. He spun his chair around to face the bank of television screens on the far wall.

"Dear God." Giles moved to Wesley's side, checking his pulse and exchanging worried looks with Iverson.

"Where's the third Slayer?"

"That's the problem, sir." The messenger pointed to one of the screens a few seconds before the black and white image of Cara staring up at the camera raised a rifle and fired. The screen went black. "She attacked Johnson and the Watcher and took out a security team."

"She's just a girl," Pascal snapped. "Get her in here. Finn, go with them."

Riley didn't move. "I'm sorry, sir. I can't obey those orders." Another camera met a violent end behind them.

"Can I say something?" Xander raised his hand halfway in the air. "You're going to get your asses kicked."

The General stared impassively at the monitors, glancing back once to take in Wesley's attempts to sit up in the chair and Riley's stiff backed mutiny. Finally he turned away from the surveillance screens and sat back down at the table with cool detachment. "I don't believe that one woman can hope to succeed against the best men our military has to offer. Slayer or not."

"Gotta love that attitude." Returning to her chair, Faith kicked her feet up onto the table in a deliberate show of disrespect. "Means we're gonna win."

Served the bastards right for herding them into a sterile claustrophobic room and having the nerve to betray them. The General had tried to be subtle, attempting to separate Buffy and Faith from the others willingly before resorting to ordering his soldiers to physically remove the civilians. Of course, that was the precise reason Buffy had insisted on Xander and Willow being there. They were part of the deal and if the General couldn't accept it, there would be no deal. Go Cara, she smiled toward the cameras as the Slayer opened fire on another group of soldiers, bring the sons of bitches to their knees.

"Take her down. Seal the room as you leave." Pascal motioned to the group of men and they started through the doorway. Once gone, a heavy metal door hissed shut and cut them off from the rest of the base.

"With all due respect, sir," Riley began tersely, still looking straight ahead with his jaw set firmly.

"I won't forget that you refused to take a direct order, Finn."

"I was under the impression that we were here to work with the Slayers, sir."

"Then you were under the wrong impression." An alarm shrieked somewhere in the compound and they could hear the faint staccato of gunfire. Pascal appeared unconcerned as he tapped his fingertips on the table. "Sit down, please. Miss Summers, Mr. Giles."

Buffy took the seat on the other side of Willow, keeping the witch protected between her and Faith with Xander and Giles on her other side. Iverson finished off the group next to the seat where Wesley was drifting in and out of consciousness. Although the General was refusing to watch the monitors, the rest continued to follow Cara's progress through the hallways as the cameras winked out one by one. Minutes crawled by like hours, gunfire getting closer and closer.

"Once they've contained the third Slayer, we will continue this meeting." General Pascal leaned back into his chair. "I hope you understand that it was never my intention to begin our relationship this way. It has been most unfortunate that you have chosen not to cooperate and that Miss," he checked the folder in front of him. "Miss Sewell has proven to be unreliable and dangerous."

"What exactly were you planning on doing to us?" Buffy demanded.

"Removal of the ovaries," Riley's voice was sharp, his eyes lowering to General's face with open hostility.

"That was the plan."

"Without their permission." A muscle in Giles' jaw began to tic.

"I don't need their permission," Pascal spat arrogantly. "They are nothing. What they are carrying inside of them is invaluable."

Buffy shook her head with disbelief. "I figured you'd try something. I counted on it. But I never thought you'd rip us open and take what you wanted without even asking. Rude much?"

"It doesn't matter what you feel or think, Miss Summers. You are a commodity. Nothing more and nothing less."

"And Cara?" Wesley's voice was slurred and he was holding on to the table for support.

"She will be a valuable resource."

"Where do people like you come from?" Buffy pulled a face. "I've known vampires who were better people. There are demons who look like the Pope compared to you."

"Morals and ethics won't rid the world of evil, Miss Summers." Pascal's eyes narrowed. "And neither will one Slayer. Even three. You must admit that it's futile to have just one woman fighting against all the vampires of the world. There is only one way."

"By building an army." Riley's hands clenched into fists.

"The fact that it's wrong continues to escape your notice? You can't beat evil by doing evil. Believe me, I know." Shaking her head, Buffy glanced around the room. "And we will get out of here. If we have to fight our way out, it's your loss."

Faith nodded her support. "We were willing to cut a deal. Now? Don't think there's a lot of trust in this room, do you?"

"Why don't we let bygones be bygones and we'll go on our merry way without killing you?" Buffy offered flatly.

"You don't kill people, Miss Summers," he countered smoothly.

"You sure about that? Cause the last time I checked, pretty much everyone in this room has tried their hand at murder." Buffy's smile was icy. "And you know, if it comes down to a fight, I'm gonna win."

"She's right." Xander grinned gleefully. "No offense, but we've seen worse. Even freaky Dr. Walsh was scarier than you. Granted, you have that cool as ice edge and you're much worse than Adam. But Glory? The Mayor? You know, even Faith was a better villain than you."

"And I'm just a commodity." Faith shrugged, watching the tread of her boots leave scuff marks on the smooth surface of the table.

"So snap your fingers, say the magic words, whatever it takes to open the door and get us out of here." Noting that the last monitor had closed its electronic eye and left the room blind, Buffy leaned forward in her seat with anticipation.

"I'm afraid that's impossible. If you'll just be patient, I'm sure they will have contained her shortly."

Buffy motioned to the bank of screens with a smug grin. "You've got a lot to learn about Slayers."

The General spun around, blinking incredulously at the empty screens. "What? This isn't possible."

Behind him, the air conditioning grate fell to the table with a bang. Two black boots landed on top of the metal, scraping it across the table with the crunch of wood fibers being shredded. Faith caught the widening smile on Buffy's face and turned back to the Slayer who had just dropped through the ceiling. Her hair was longer than Faith remembered but the two pistols in her hands were familiar. Standing on the table, her head nearly brushed against the ceiling.

"I believe this the part where I say…I told you so." There was a hint of pride in Iverson's voice.

"My men?" Pascal's expression was unreadable.

"Out of commission," Cara answered evenly. The guns dropped to the table, metal gleaming as she pulled a dagger from her belt and spun it through her fingers like a gun in a western movie. One foot kicked out and caught the side of the General's face, propelling the chair back against the monitors. She followed with a leap off of the table, reorienting the blade in her hand and slashing a wide arc to the left. The room was silent as General Pascal gasped, reaching for his throat as blood began to drip from the wound. His face paled, fingers trembling as he tried to stop the red liquid pouring through the gash in his skin. She flipped the knife once more, lunging forward to drive it straight through the General's heart; their faces stayed inches apart as the General gasped his last breath.

"Cara," Wesley managed to get out through clenched teeth.

Faith felt her throat constrict as Cara turned around slowly, facing Wesley with a look that defied him to rebuke her. The girl's face was spattered with blood, her arms smeared with it and dark stains spreading over her clothing hinted at more blood. Her cheek had been cut at some point during the fighting and her lower lip split open. Several bruises marred the skin on her arms and neck. She looked down at her hands for a moment, seeing that they were covered with blood before dropping them to her sides.

"I'm sorry for hitting you," Cara told Wesley flatly, her back straight as an arrow.

He touched his face gingerly, wincing at the bruise forming over the right cheekbone and casting a meaningful look toward Faith. "I seem to have that effect on Slayers."

"Cara?" Buffy looked stricken. "What happened to you?"

Cara glanced toward Riley with suspicion. "Should I kill him?"

"No! No. He's one of the good guys." Pushing away from the table, Buffy stood up and visibly stopped herself from moving to Cara's side. "Are the rest of them? The men. Are they dead?"

"Most of them." Her eyes were on Wesley, watching his every move. Slowly she reached out and picked up one of the guns she had dropped, ignoring the scrape of metal against wood as she shoved the weapon toward Wesley and stepped back from the table. Waiting.

The sinking feeling in the bottom of Faith's stomach took another dive when Wesley reached out, fingers shaking as they wrapped around the gun. His face was drawn from the effort of holding the firearm steady, lips pursed tightly. A single nod from Cara was the only communication between them before the gun fired and she winced, reaching involuntarily for the dart in her stomach. The ghost of a smile appeared on her lips before she sunk to her knees, toppling over onto her side unconscious.

"What is going on?" Iverson demanded, his chair falling back with a crash.

"She's got a taste for it," Faith answered knowingly, clenching her fists tightly to keep her hands from trembling.

Had they felt the same horror and shock when she had killed the Deputy Mayor and the Professor? Was this what it had felt like for all of them? The can't breathe, snakes wriggling under the skin, too far past nausea to actually throw up, kind of shock to the system that left shaking fingers and numb minds. Maybe it was only her. Because she'd been there, washed the blood off of her hands and face, knew what it felt like to drive that blade through skin and bone. Oh God. Was that what she had looked like? Some sort of Hell's Angel sprayed with death and dressed in rage.

"What?"

"It's a long story." Wesley pushed the gun away from him, eying it distastefully.

"You said she was injured. Not homicidal." Iverson took a deep breath. "Is it because of her conditioning? Did we do that to her?"

"Hey guys," Faith interrupted, not wanting to stare at the General's dead body oozing blood or the unconscious limbs of his killer any longer than she had to. It was too close to home, too familiar and too ironic. "He's doped to the gills and we're still stuck in this godforsaken bunker. How 'bout we play twenty questions once we're back topside?"

"Good idea," Buffy agreed, taking charge of the situation. "Can you get us out of here, Riley?"

"Yes." He nodded absently, eyes still on Cara's sleeping form.

"Xander, help Riley with Cara. Faith and I will take Willow. You two…Giles, Mr. Iverson…help out where you're needed." She threw Faith a look that meant an interrogation was coming.

Faith sighed as she slipped her arms under Willow's legs. They waited until Riley had opened the doors and silenced the alarms in the hallway. He took Cara's shoulders, Xander's hands under her legs as they carried her gently out of the room. Wesley was next, supported by Giles, and Iverson trailed closely behind them.

The corridors were mine fields of bodies lying where they had fallen with cold fingers still wrapped around weapons they hadn't had the chance to fire. A few had daggers buried to the hilt in necks and chests, pools of crimson spreading out across the floor. Survivors were groaning as they crawled to their feet, staggering against the walls with blood on their hands and faces. The least wounded helped each other bandage cuts and broken bones until real medical attention could arrive. Their eyes watched the Slayers move through the compound with fear and anger, Riley tried to calm and soothe them as he moved past them. More than a few probably would have loved to take a shot at Cara, glaring at her limp body with a mixture of pain and hate. Faith was shaking as she stepped over a dead body, glancing down into blank eyes and noticing the unnatural angle of his leg.

"God, B." Her voice shook.

"I know." Buffy paused at an intersection, letting the others get ahead far enough for her words to be unheard. "This…I've never. Not even when you went Psycho Slayer."

Faith motioned to another fallen soldier. "Looks like she took out his knee and broke his jaw. He's breathing though."

"She wasn't like this. I mean, even when she kidnapped everyone, she wasn't cruel. Not like this." Buffy readjusted her grip on Willow. "You said she has a taste for it, how can you tell?"

Faith shrugged as they rounded another corner. "The way she did it. Slitting his throat was enough, stabbing him the second time was for kicks. She wanted to watch him die."

"Evil?"

"Could be."

"Sucks for Wesley. Getting the evil Slayers. No offense, of course." Buffy glanced up with a brittle smile.

"None taken. Feel bad for the guy myself." Faith returned the smile sadly and blinked against the bright sun as they stepped through the doorway. "Don't think she's evil though. Or she wouldn't have asked Wes to shoot her."

"Did she?"

"Not so many words but he got the picture." They laid Willow gently in the soft grass and looked around for the others.

"Xander is bringing his car around and Riley left for the hospital to arrange care for the soldiers. I believe Iverson is going to be spending the next week trying to clean up this mess." Giles joined them, still favoring his barely healed arm. Wesley was leaning against a tree with Cara lying at his side, one hand softly caressing her hair.

Buffy pulled off her jacket, folding it into a pillow and placing it under Willow's head. "Wish we knew why."

"At least she got us out of there," Faith reasoned, feeling slightly obligated to see both sides of the issue. If there was more than one side to cold blooded murder. "General Asshole would have shot us up and made with the scalpel if she hadn't done it. I could've taken a few of those guys but up against the tranq guns, it wouldn't have been pretty."

"You're right."

"One more Slayer with a murder rap. Think they'll send her to jail?"

"They'll cover it up just like they did last time." Shaking her head with a heavy sigh, Buffy sat down in the cooler shade of the tree. "I want to know how she knew what they were going to do and we didn't. I mean, we figured they would try to screw us over in the red tape, fine print kinda way. We weren't expecting the slice and dice angle. How did she know?"

"It's the kind of thing Lilah would do." Wesley cut into their conversation, looking up from Cara. "In fact, Lilah may have known what they intended. She makes it her business to know these things."

"Lilah?"

"Lilah Morgan." Tiredly, he laced his fingers through Cara's, stroking them gently. "A lawyer for Wolfram and Hart. I took Cara in for an evaluation three days ago. We wanted to help her, reverse what the Council did to her. Instead, Lilah imprinted Cara with her own memories in an effort, we believe, to assume Cara's life. Unfortunately, the neural transfer was done incorrectly. Cara escaped. We only found her last night. Ripping a group of vampires apart, not staking, not killing; just beating them until they couldn't move, slicing them to ribbons."

"Why didn't you inform the Council of her instability?"

Wesley's jaw clenched. "So they could lock her up like a dangerous animal? Kill her? Even Angel-" He stopped, words swallowed up by his anger. "She did what had to be done here. To save us all. The world isn't black and white. We shouldn't expect Slayers to walk a line that doesn't exist."

"Even Angel what?" Faith's stomach was twisting.

"Nothing."

"If Angel doesn't think she can be fixed," Buffy winced at the phrase. "Not that she's a toaster or something but maybe he has a point. I mean, he knows a lot about that kind of thing."

"All of this has been done to her against her will," Wesley argued vehemently. "It's not her. It's not who she is."

"Who is she, Wesley?" Giles shook his head ruefully. "So far, we have nothing but your word on that."

"I've watched her take on odds you wouldn't believe just to save a homeless person too drunk to realize they're in danger. Put herself between demons and humans regardless of the danger. When she woke up last night, her first question was if she'd hurt Angel. What Lilah did was vicious, maybe even irreparable. But I will not stand by and watch the Council destroy the rest of her. As long as there is a chance, a possibility, that part of Cara is still there."

"We're not saying we want to hurt her Wesley," Buffy began gently.

Faith stopped her, placing one hand on Buffy's arm. "It's cool, Wes. Just let us know if there's anything we can do. We want to save her as much as you do."

His grateful look thanked her and he leaned his head back against the tree, cradling Cara's hand in his lap. It was too similar to her own desire to save Spike without caring about the cost. Even if it had meant sending the world into hell, she would have kissed it good-bye and wished it well. If it meant Spike would still be in her arms. Her own pain surfaced again, refused to stay anchored in the background where she had buried it, hoping it would go away.

It was easy to concentrate on other things, to worry about the Council and the military and fiendish plots to remove internal organs. Always easier to sit beside Willow and keep watch over her, to stay quiet and watch the world unfold around her. Wonder if there was a pattern and a reason for everything that happened. Or if they were all just careening through life doing the next thing and then the next, without rhyme or reason. Seeing Cara stretched out on the ground was surreal, watching another Slayer get sucked down into the pit of bloodlust and despair. Not for the same reasons, there were different whys and hows but it all came from the same source.

Even Buffy, bright and polished Buffy, hadn't been able to escape the darkness of their power and it's questionable origins. Maybe the Slayers were born in darkness, in sin and evil. If Cara hadn't been called, would those men have lived? Would Buffy and Faith be blissfully unaware of being anatomically strip-mined? How many innocent people would have died without her? Did it really balance out? She had argued that same point with Buffy years before and she still didn't know the answer.

The sound of a car engine cut her off before she delved deeper into serious philosophy. Pulling back to the safety of isolated interest, she focused on Buffy's soothing voice as she joked with Xander. They lifted both Cara and Willow into the backseat with Wesley between them as a buffer just in case Cara woke up on the way back to Revello Drive. The threat was gone, they had beaten the bad guys. It wasn't exactly satisfying. Like winning a war without firing a single shot. At least it was over and she could retreat back into her cocoon where the dull ache of loneliness kept her company. Treading the fine line between trying too hard to be all right and not hard enough. Too much and Dawn would notice the false effort, too little and Buffy would resume her new pastime of making sure Faith was getting better. There was a narrow pathway between the two that kept everyone satisfied and left Faith to her own devices. That was all she really wanted. To be left alone.

* * *

It read like a war report. The pictures were worse. Images of men fighting and dying, necks snapping, bones breaking, and bullets leaving scorch marks in bruised flesh. Beyond the human casualties, more than half of the base had been slaughtered, there was a list of mechanical and technological victims as well. Computers, surveillance cameras. Hard drives and electrical equipment ripped apart by the same bullets that had peppered the hallways with holes.

The President of the United States shuffled through the pictures again. "One girl did this?"

"Yes sir." The Secretary of Defense was sitting in the couch, looking more tired and pinched than usual.

"One little girl. Amazing." He shook his head slightly and kept reading. "This is the official statement from Agent Finn. Interesting read. Is it true?"

"I believe so, sir. Pascal had been running training camps in Sunnydale for the last three years, getting the Special Ops teams field experience fighting demons." He winced at little at the word demon. "He was originally part of the Initiative and has kept information on the Slayers over the years. There are his travel plans and the arrangements he made to transport human organs as well as a person we believe was intended to be Miss Sewell."

"She didn't like the idea, apparently." Tapping the photographs lightly, he swiveled his chair around and stared thoughtfully out the window of the Oval Office. "Not that I blame her. The idea of being a test subject is singularly unpleasant."

"What do you wish to do about the situation, sir? Obviously, the Slayers are uncontrollable and dangerous."

"It would appear that way."

"Should we neutralize them?"

"You mean kill them? Why would we do that?" The President shook his head.

"With the damage that just one of them is capable of, sir, how can we allow them to exist?"

"I suppose they're here for a reason. Vampire Slayers. Probably not something that our government has jurisdiction or control over." He closed the file and motioned to the stack of folders on the desk. "If even half of this is true, Miss Summers has saved all of our lives a dozen times."

"Then perhaps only the girl is dangerous."

With a smile, he turned to face his friend and colleague. "Stanley, if this little girl was not a little girl, if she was a man, a Seal or a Green Beret, and this wasn't our own facility but an embassy. Say in one of the more unstable African countries. Would you be worried about her being dangerous?"

"No, sir."

"Exactly. She would be your most prized possession."

"But it was our facility, sir."

"And she was about to be taken hostage and her fellow Slayers violated."

"I fail to see your point, sir."

"She just needs to be pointed in the right direction. Perhaps find a place for her where her talents and obvious affinity for violence would be better utilized. Harness her energy rather than waste it." He nodded to himself, agreeing with his own plan.

"And the others?"

"I should think that would be very simple." When the Secretary's face remained blank, he smiled and pulled out a piece of paper, scribbling quickly and signing his name with a flourish. "Here's your official order to deal with the Slayers."

Leaning forward, the Minister took the sheet of paper, frowning slightly as he read it. "Give them whatever they want, sir?"

"Unless, of course, you want to lose more of our country's soldiers. It's their game, play by their rules."

* * *

Warm fingers were brushing against her face, causing pain in a good way. The pain of healing wounds and fading bruises. She had been fighting. Again. When had she done anything else? There were the familiar aches and pains of muscles and tendons, pulling and stretching. Something cool and hard around her wrists. Eyes still closed, she tried to bring the memories back into focus. It took a considerable amount of effort to wade through the memories of Cara Sewell, then through Lilah Morgan's past, to what had happened yesterday, today. Men with guns, a trap.

Cara had known it was a trap, watching the nervous eyes of the young soldier leading them through the hallways. The sympathy, the pity, on his face had been more eloquent than a full report and strategy review. When he hadn't fought back, when the doors had closed to seal off the compound, her suspicions were confirmed. She'd told him the truth, it was something Lilah would do. After that point, the memories were fuzzy. Full of blood and violence. A few of the soldiers had managed to connect; a fist here, a boot there. Enough to leave her just a little battered and sore. The weariness and fatigue wasn't from the fighting. She couldn't explain it, settling into her bones like a cancer feeding on energy and life. So tired. Tired of fighting, of running, of hurting.

Beneath her head, someone was adjusting a soft pillow and tipping her face to the side to dab at the cut on her cheek. Keeping still, she opened her eyes slowly. Where she had expected her Watcher's face, she saw kind brown eyes and dark hair. Xander Harris. It was a relief to see someone who didn't have any associated Lilah memories, who hadn't spent the last seven years in Los Angeles being manipulated by Wolfram and Hart.

"Sorry to wake you up. Everyone else is duking it out with the U.S of A upstairs. I got the short straw." He blinked at her, smiling nervously. "Not that I'm uncomfortable with blood. Even other people, dead people, blood. Just not used to taking care of a Slayer, usually it's the other way around."

Cara noticed the stained cloth in his hands and touched her cheek tentatively, feeling the pull of a butterfly bandage over the cut. Metal clinked softly, her wrists were shackled with a chain attached to the wall.

"Brand new for your bondage pleasure. Though not in a sex way. Spike broke the old one." With a sigh, he pulled another soft strip of cotton from a plastic bag and started again. He dipped it into a bowl of warm water and dabbing gently at more wounds she hadn't noticed; slices across her arms and shoulders, scrapes on her knuckles and elbows.

"Wes has some clothes for you to change into later." The damp cloth was cool against her skin, sweeping down her forearm and around her wrist. "That was something. What you did back there."

"Is he angry with me?" Air rasped through her throat painfully.

"Wes? No. He's, well, he hasn't really said anything since we got here. But I'm not a card carrying Watcher so they don't have to let me in on their secrets." Xander shrugged and moved to her other hand. "He told us the basics. About Lilah, Wolfram and Hart."

Cara tried to smile, twisting her hand slightly so that he could clean away the blood on the underside of her wrist more easily. "Do they think I'm like Faith?"

"You mean, are they going to try to kill you? Not that I know of. I think they learned their lesson with Faith."

Weary, she closed her eyes again and laid her head back down.

"So…" He started on her right shoulder. "I've never met this Lilah woman but she must be a real bitch to do this to you. The mind meld thing."

"She wanted him back."

"Wesley?"

Cara nodded, easing her eyes open once more to see his face. "I think she loved him. I'm not sure what love is. It feels strange, I think."

"That would be love."

"Like butterflies inside. Sometimes it hurts. Is that love?"

"Could be." His head turned to the side and he watched her quietly for a moment before moving the cotton down her bicep gently. "Love can make you happier than anything in the world and it can break your heart into a million pieces. It makes you strong, it makes you weak. Sometimes it even makes you a little crazy. And sometimes you don't even know it's love until hits you like a runaway train."

"Do you love?" She shifted uncomfortably, straining against the chains enough to push her tired body into a sitting position. Undaunted by her movement, he kept working, washing away the blood from her arm.

"You mean, do I love someone?"

"Maybe." She didn't know what she meant. Wasn't sure of her own emotions, if they were actually hers or Lilah's and if she'd given them the right names. It was still hard to decide what was real.

"Right now?" He shrugged. "I'm working on it. There's this girl. And maybe it isn't the grand sweeping love you see in the movies. Maybe it's just the quiet, sit home and grow old together love. I don't know yet."

"What is it like? To be loved." Her question stopped him and he met her gaze evenly.

"It's what makes life worth living. It's what gets us out of bed in the morning and makes the world go round. Although you could argue that's coffee rather than love. It can feel like a good caffeine buzz sometimes." Lifting her hand, he began cleaning away the dried blood from her knuckles. "When there's nothing else to hold on to, love keeps you going. Gives you the strength to do things you wouldn't be able to do otherwise."

"It sounds very complicated."

"Usually is. Now your life, it's pretty simple, isn't it? Kill, fight, more killing, more fighting."

"I'm a Slayer," she answered softly.

"The thing about Slayers, Cara." He smiled as he brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Is that they're never just a Slayer. Not even you. In fact, since you have a bunch of pre-fab memories from someone else's life, you're definitely more than just a Slayer."

"What are you?"

"A lowly human. No super powers, can't leap buildings in a single bound or run faster than a speeding train. I'm lethal with a power drill though and I know the California building codes like the back of my hand. Until they change them of course, which will probably be next Tuesday."

She looked down at her hands as he brushed away the blood of men she had killed. "Should I feel guilty?"

"Jury's still out on that one. They weren't exactly white hats but they weren't black hats either. Caught in the crossfire, I guess. And it was almost worth it to see a little bit of the old Faith again. Not that you would know Old Faith from New Faith, so you'll have to trust me on this one." He paused for a moment to adjust the strip, looking for a spot that wasn't stained with blood. "Do you feel guilty?"

"I'm not sure. I didn't know them and they would have hurt me." They weren't like the people she was supposed to protect. They weren't like Xander. Sorting through the conflicting emotions, she struggled to find a definitive answer. Her extra memories weren't particularly helpful. "Guilt wasn't something Lilah actively practiced."

"Apparently she had a sense of humor though. That's always good. Life is hard and laughter is the only weapon you have against that." Finishing her hands, he folded the cloth neatly and flashed her a smile.

"Life," Cara repeated thoughtfully, thinking back over Lilah's memories. "It's strange. To know there's something else. Other than slaying. Movies and music. And skin care products."

"Don't forget an infinite variety of footwear."

"I've never been to a mall. Not really."

"It's your lucky day then, we just happen to have a mall rat here in this very house. I'm sure Dawn would love to take you. If they ever decide to get rid of the chain motif."

"It's safer this way. I don't always understand. Sometimes it's…it's." Her voice trailed off as she realized she didn't know how to explain the violence inside and she changed the subject abruptly. "I had a family. Sisters like Dawn. In England. Lilah has files about me."

"Oh." There were several layers of emotion in the single word. She filed them away for reference.

"They're dead now. Should I be sad?"

"Traditionally."

Cara turned her eyes to the rest of the basement. She was sitting on a folded futon across the room from the washing machine and dryer. There were baskets of laundry coming and going, some folded, some crumpled haphazardly. A home. Where people lived and loved and did so many things that she didn't understand. Lilah's life had been hollow, lacking the things she saw around her. A mother who didn't remember who she was, locked away in an expensive home with a hundred other women who didn't know their own children. There was a graveyard outside San Jose where her father lay quietly in his grave. Pretty, shiny objects. Jewelry, shoes, designer clothing. And nothing but an empty apartment waiting for her. Now that she was dead, there was even less. An office and a man who would never love her.

"You'll be fine. Just take it one day at a time." He patted her shoulder a little awkwardly. "When Anya first became human again, she had a hard time adjusting to the real world but she got the hang of it. And if Anya could do it, anyone can."

"I think, maybe, that I am not a good Slayer."

"Of course you are. You kick butt like a pro." He motioned to the bloody cloth and rust tinted water as proof. "Everyone has to go through the fire at some point. Where they're miserable and destructive. Willow tried to blow up the world, Faith tried to kill everyone, even Buffy had a one-way ticket through the land of the living nightmares and boinking the semi-evil undead. Another part of life. Not one of the better parts, like ice cream and comic books, but you really can't get out of it."

"And you?" Cara asked curiously.

"Still working on it. Becoming issues."

"Does it get better?"

"Eventually."

"What is going to happen to me?" She didn't think he knew. It was just a question spinning through her mind like a tornado and ripping the rest of her thoughts into pieces. She'd never wondered about her future, seeing only more demons, more blood and pain. Now that she had lost the security of her calling and the certainty that came with obeying her duty, she didn't know what her future held and couldn't imagine where she would go next. What happened now?

"I wouldn't worry too much. You've got an English bulldog named Wesley looking out for you. Gotta tell you, he's a whole new man and a little on the scary side since he left Sunnydale." Moving the bowl and cloth out of the way, he leaned back against the folded cushion. "You know, I've haven't really talked this much with a Slayer for a few years. Not since Tara was shot, really. Just talked."

"I don't usually talk." Cara felt her cheeks get hot and turned her eyes to her hands.

"You should. Talk more, I mean. Good for the soul. At least I hear it is and hey, psychiatrists get paid the big bucks to do just that so there has to be something to it, right?"

"Why do you fight?" It was something that had puzzled her since she'd left Sunnydale. She was Chosen, she was called. Why did Xander Harris fight vampires?

"I'm addicted to the pain." He grinned, but shook his head immediately. "Kidding. I started because I wanted to help Buffy. Hot chick fighting vampires, it was pretty cool. It made me feel cool. Then I fought because trouble seemed to find me and it was either go down kicking and screaming or whimpering like a little girl. Now? Because I can do something good. Make the world a little better."

Cara understood the desire to make a difference, to put a dent in the armies of evil and horrors that crept through the night. She'd seen them, fought them. Somehow she felt better knowing she wasn't the only one. That it wasn't just one Slayer holding back the tide.

"So, I guess the real question is, what do you want to do now? Buffy and Faith are wheeling and dealing to get what they want. I'm sure Wes would go to bat for you if you had a plan."

She could tell he was sincere, that the question was honest and real. But she couldn't think of anything she wanted, anything that she would ask for. All she knew, all she had, was a seven year history from a life that wasn't hers and a string of violent memories that were. Vaguely, she knew that Lilah would have a list of requests. A new apartment, a raise, no longer having to run Angel's errands. But that was Lilah. Not Cara. Cara had never had an apartment, never driven a car, never gone shopping in a mall, or seen a movie in a theatre. Buffy and Dawn had invited her, but she had declined, wondering why the two Summers women wasted their time when there were demons to kill.

Frowning, she tried to spread her life out in her mind, push it into a shape and order. A few things she knew for certain: there would always be demons to kill, she would always be a Slayer and chosen to fight the forces of darkness, and she couldn't stay in Los Angeles. She couldn't stay with her Watcher. Not without fighting Lilah every second of every day. Xander was still watching her, waiting for her answer.

"I want to fight," she responded simply, no knowing any other way to answer.

* * *

"Did you sign it?" Riley pressed his fingers against his temples.

"I signed it," Buffy answered brightly.

"I didn't see you."

"My signature is right there. Check for yourself." She waved the heavy stack of paper past his face. "Are you sure they'll take it?"

"Yes, they'll take it."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

"You know I'll hunt you down if you're lying."

"Were you this violent when we were dating?" Riley made a grab for the contract and missed. He scowled at Buffy. It was nearly four in the morning and he was exhausted from a night of hammering out their demands.

"You just didn't notice. Not big with the observy-ness. Remember the Buffy Faith body swap?"

He stopped trying to take the contract and glared at her. "Are you going to bring that up fifty years from now when we're both in wheelchairs and diapers?"

"Just making a point."

"Point taken. Now will you sign the contract. I'd like to go home to my wife."

"How is Sam doing?"

"Buffy."

"Riley."

"It's four o'clock in the morning. You got everything you wanted. Just sign the contract."

She looked down at the contract again, opening it up to flip through the pages one more time. "You're sure there aren't any clauses I need to know about? Like ripping out my internal organs without asking?"

"You've read it fifteen times."

"And Faith is taken care of?"

"She's already signed hers."

"And Giles?"

"His too."

"Xander and Willow?"

"They left two hours ago. Like sane people."

"Dawn?"

"Sign the contract, Buffy."

"I just want to make sure this doesn't come back to bite me in the ass."

"If it does, I'm sure you'll turn right around and put a few more Marines in the hospital."

She raised an eyebrow. "That was Cara."

"It was a figure of speech. I hope."

"What about Cara?"

"She has a bright future in Special Ops."

"And Wesley?"

"Back to L.A. without her. She didn't want a Watcher."

"How did he take it?"

"I don't know, Buffy." Riley gave up and took a seat on the couch. He stared up at her and wished he had half her energy. Maybe years of spending her nights fighting evil made it easier to stay up all night; lots of practice. "He seemed alright."

"That's because he's British. Stiff upper lip and stoicism. Is that a word? Stoicism."

"I'm sure he's fine."

"Would you be fine if your second Slayer massacred an entire army base?"

"Probably not. Are you ever going to sign that?"

"I don't remember you being this impatient."

"You were a little distracted."

"With Glory, yeah."

"With Spike," he countered, not without feel a bit of petty vindictiveness. At this rate, he would never leave the Summers' home.

"That is so not true!"

"Right."

"It's not. The thing with Spike didn't start until after…after Glory."

"Whatever you say."

"Oh, no you don't." Buffy scowled at him. "You can't just bring it up and then say…whatever you say. There was nothing between me and Spike, Spike and me. Is it Spike and I?"

"It's me. And there was something between you two. It was obvious."

"Obvious? Mr. I Slept With Faith."

"She was in your body."

"That's supposed to matter?"

"Will you please sign the damn contract?"

"You said damn."

"I'm going to be using worse words than that if you don't pick up that pen and get this over with."

"It's just so cute…you swearing."

* * *

The landscape was stark, a world of bleeding contrast between dark and light. Good and evil. It should have been sweltering and the sunlight should have scorched Cara's skin as it had seared the rest of the world; instead, it whispered heat and promised calm. Golden sand slipped around her feet as she wound through the dunes, watching mirages shimmer above the ground all around her. To pass the time, she counted pieces of driftwood and Joshua trees, wondering how she'd found her way from the bustling streets of civilization to the serenity of the desert.

Her mind was clear for the first time in months and despite the grainy scenery around her, she was at peace among the bright dunes and prickly plant life. She was waiting for someone, that much she knew and understood even if she didn't know who or why. It didn't matter. All questions would be answered in due time and she continued to wander through the sand. The position of the sun never waned, continuing to beam down a heat that was never more than comfortably warm. Pushing forward, she reached a sheltered cove of sand and soft grass. Nestling down into the pale green fronds, she stroked them casually, savoring the cool silk against her skin.

"Welcome." It was a man's voice. Looking up, she saw him standing beside her dressed in heavy camouflage pants and a dark t-shirt.

"You are not who I am supposed to see," Cara responded intuitively.

"I have taken her place." He crouched beside her and she studied his face carefully, wondering why she wasn't afraid of him when he was obviously inhuman. Black hair was cut short and nearly black eyes burned with a supernatural fire, his skin bronzed by countless hours in the sun. His face was all sharp angles and chiseled lines, a strong nose and cheekbones. Handsome in a frightening way. Tall, muscular, she knew his hands would be rough from a lifetime or more of handling weapons.

"What have I come here for?" Cara asked, her voice all but swallowed up in the silence of the landscape.

"Clarity."

"Will I ever understand?"

"You already understand everything you need."

"To be the Slayer." Cara flicked a piece of grass over her palm. "To hold back the night until the floods roll in. But I'm not beautiful."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"Mirrors laugh when they see my face. Plain as the day is long." She almost smiled, feeling as though she was reciting a poem. "Slayers should have golden honey hair and lips like blood red roses. Beautiful prey for ugly creatures."

"Do you truly think them ugly?"

"No. There is no ugliness in my world. There is no beauty. There just is."

"That is your strength."

"How can I be strong?" Gazing out over the dunes, she trailed her fingers lazily through the sand and grass. "I'm broken."

"You are unbreakable."

"Then who am I?"

"Who do you need to be?" He was smiling. It was a great and terrible smile. A smile that meant the destruction of worlds and bloodshed without end. It comforted her because it was familiar and it was for her.

"Just a Slayer," she answered softly, wishing it was always this simple, that she could take the peace of mind back with her when the desert faded away.

"The rest is up to you. Mortals cannot change who you are." He reached out to her, brushing long hair away from her face and raking his fingers through the heavy waves. It felt good to be touched.

"Who are you?"

"I have a thousand names."

"For a thousand voices that raise your name in battle and offer their victories up to you."

"I am the call in your blood, the glory when you kill."

"Can I stay here? It is peaceful and I understand." Cara waited for a single hopeful moment before the smile returned and he shook his head slowly.

"You are needed. It is just beginning, Slayer. You are just beginning."

Cara smiled, reaching out to touch the hard angles of his face. There was a hint of apprehension in his eyes and something that she recognized from seeing the world through Lilah's jaded sight. "You think I am beautiful," she whispered softly.

"Never have I seen such beauty," he answered, voice rough and hushed in the heavy silence.

Still as statues, they basked in the empty heat and space of the desert, palms pressed against the other's cheek and eyes locked together in a gaze Cara found to be a source of strength and humility. Who or what He was would remain beyond her and she could never hope to do anything more than touch the power she felt beneath her fingertips. Whatever destiny laid in wait for her once she returned to her world, she would take with her the knowledge that in this place of silence and power, He did not think she was broken. He thought she was beautiful.

It was a place to start.


	38. That Dark Night

**That Dark Night**

"Mornin' Doc." Spike winked at the older woman mischievously as he flipped the chair around and draped his arms over the wooden slats. "Good night's sleep did wonders."

Not that he'd slept, in fact, he'd done the exact opposite. His eyes were opened; he was seeing the world for the first time. Nothing could be ruled out, anything was possible. Bring on the angels, the dragons, the sorcerers, and the psychics. He was wide open and willing to believe in any strange, supernatural, mystical, bizarre, alien, creature that he happened upon. The first glimpse, a demon bar on the south side, had only whetted his appetite. Of course, he'd stepped into the room, looked around with eyes bugging out of his skull and stepped right out again, but it was a start. One look around that room had been enough proof that the city of Boston housed more than human beings in its bustling streets. In a way, it made his own changes easier to deal with. The fact that he was stronger, faster, and healed fast enough that he could watch the skin knit back together if he wanted to. Freaky? Yeah. Exciting? Hell yeah.

The question was now, how much could he do? How far could he push? Where was his limit? So far he hadn't found it, had barely pushed into territory where his lungs and muscles burned, and even then, it was only a matter of seconds before he was ready to head back for more. How far, how high could he jump? How much weight could he lift? How fast could he run? He wanted to ask where it had come from, why and how he had changed. As far as he knew, he hadn't been bitten by any radioactive spiders or picked up an aversion to green rocks. Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. That philosophy also kept the nagging doubts at bay. The whys and the whats that he was pretty sure he didn't actually want to know.

"Good morning, Davis." Dr. Olivia Coleman peered over the ebony rims of her glasses with a reserved smile. "You're feeling better, obviously. That's wonderful." She sounded reluctant to believe his abrupt change from brooding and anxious to upbeat and happy.

"Brand new man." The fact that his voice was positively chipper almost made him laugh out loud. Since he didn't think she needed any more reasons to put him under closer scrutiny, he choked down the urge to laugh and kept his excitement to an acceptable level.

Compliments of the weather, she was already looking at him as though he'd lost his mind. Boston was choked in a heat wave in the triple digits, with humidity; it was probably going be a goddamn miserable day and he was sitting in her office with a blissful smile plastered over his face. He was sweating, soaked from the moisture-laden air, and no fan, no air-conditioning could shake away the lethargy brought by heat, except that he didn't feel lethargic at all. He was practically vibrating with energy. He'd be stuck in the office going over interview transcripts, searching through crime scene photos, and generally getting nowhere for the rest of the day. And it sounded bloody brilliant to Spike. Because Davis "Spike" Williams was not losing his mind, not going bug-shagging crazy, and had not killed anyone. The stress was not getting to him and he was not losing his edge. He'd merely been let in on the world's greatest secret; the fucking boogeyman was real.

"Good, good." Solemn brown eyes regarded him thoughtfully for a few seconds before she pushed away from her desk and moved to the filing cabinet. "I have a few questions for you, if you have a minute."

"No problem." A few minutes with the shrink was hardly a stiff price to pay to get back to work.

God, what a life. Job he loved, good apartment, and super powers to boot. Who'd complain about that? What he really wanted was to get down to the crime lab to find out what had come of the fingerprints they'd lifted off of the doll. It would be their first real piece of evidence. But appeasing the psyche Nazi took priority since it was her good words that would keep him off of Merritt's radar.

"You've got a few months before you're up for evaluation." Pulling a thick folder from the cabinet, she adjusted her glasses as she sat down and began sifting through the papers. It was his file, of course, but he was still a little surprised to see how full it was. "Merritt says you've dealt with the publicity of this case adeptly."

"Haven't said much."

"Precisely his point." She smiled wryly. "You handle yourself well with the press and that's not something we can say about all of our detectives. You answer their questions succinctly without giving them any information, no show-boating, no exaggeration."

"Just the facts, ma'am."

"How do you feel about the press?"

"Does it look bad if I say I'd like to throttle the lot of 'em?"

"I believe most of us feel that way some of the time." Papers shuffled through her hands as she kept looking through his file. "Do you have a girlfriend? Are you dating?"

"Not at the moment." Spike glanced around the office, anxious to get back to his desk and away from the questions that he knew by heart. It was a familiar dance. She knew full well that her usual subtlety didn't work on Spike; a degree in psychology gave him the benefit of insight into the questions she wasn't asking, the seemingly harmless answers that gave the rest of the officers away. Regardless of their five-year stalemate, they always danced. She slipped in the delicately worded probes and he fended them off with vague, nebulous answers or ignored the subtext completely.

The rolled cuff of his white shirt brushed against the arm of his chair as he fidgeted, whispering with the hint of another hazy memory. White was for brides and angels. He paused for a moment, trying to catch hold of the déjà vu before it disappeared. Did he know someone named Angel? Whatever it was, whatever memories and strange images continued to wind their way into his consciousness would eventually make sense. He just had to get up, do his job, and have faith that life would sort itself out.

_Faith. _

There was another word that seemed to be loitering about his brain like a bored teenager with a spray can of mixed emotions, painting images and colors that he couldn't put his finger on. It was a good thing. Sort of. Maybe. Not too sure on that. Good or bad and whatever the hell it meant, it was definitely there and waiting like a bear trap for him to find the right trigger. But nothing was going to dampen his mood today. Not when he'd spent the last two days doing the impossible and experiencing the adrenaline high of his life. Somewhere in the background, Dr. Coleman was still talking to him. He reined in his thoughts as they kept straining to race through the possibilities of his new world.

"In the five years that I have known you, Davis, you have given me that same exact answer every time I've asked. Not at the moment." She motioned to the stack of papers. "I evaluate every member of this precinct once a year, sometimes more often, and I almost always ask them the same questions. Your answers never change."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Not necessarily. In many instances, I believe it shows that your level of understanding of the world around you. Your grasp of human nature and society, is highly developed for a man in his late twenties. While others are still trying to figure out what this life is all about, you already know. You've found your niche." The delicate chains around her glasses tinkled as she slid them off and let them hang loosely around her neck. "The one thing that you haven't managed to find is a partner. Someone to share your life with."

"I've got a partner, Doc." Her frankness surprised him. This was a new dance and one that he wasn't prepared for.

"You know what I meant."

He knew. It was a question he'd been asking himself every night since he'd first rolled over expecting someone to be there, knowing without doubt that someone should have been there, and found nothing but empty space. Since then, he'd realized there was a gaping hole in his life that should have been filled. Maybe it was biology telling him to settle down and pitch in his contribution to the gene pool. Maybe it was good, old-fashioned human loneliness.

"I date," he offered lamely. "Can't hardly get out of it. Gage always drags some poor bird into my world."

"But you don't actively seek out female companionship."

Hesitating, he wondered where she was headed. "Don't seek out men either, if that's what you're asking."

"I just find it fascinating from a psychiatrist's point of view that you've remained single all these years. You're an attractive man, you're mature, have an excellent sense of humor, and you're respectful toward women in general. But the only woman you've ever mentioned in your evaluations is your mother."

"Great lady." Squirming wasn't exactly dignified behavior for a homicide detective. He squirmed anyway.

"What are you looking for in a companion?"

"Same thing as everyone else." Spike shrugged and looked away, still embarrassed by her unusual praise. He wanted someone who burned. With life, with passion. Who had an edge and a strength. His equal, someone who could keep him on his toes and always surprise him, who made him feel like he'd caught fire because she was raw with it, dark and razor sharp from really living. The kind of woman who would roll up her sleeves and dive in, willing to get her hands dirty. Who felt out of place in Tiffany's with her jeans, tank tops, and boots made for kicking ass. A woman who wasn't afraid to be alive even when it hurt like Hell.

"Is it commitment that bothers you? Fear of being hurt?"

"What? No. Just haven't found the one, is all."

"The one." Brown and silver hair slipped from behind her ear as she tipped her head to the side. "Do you believe there is such thing as the one?"

Spike frowned. "Yeah. Guess I do. Maybe not just one in the whole world, maybe there's a few. Two or three."

"Do you believe in love?"

"Course I do. Not much experience with it."

"Do you want to find her? This one."

"Eventually."

"Describe her to me."

"Doc, it's really nice of you to be concerned. But I'm fine." Spike glanced at the door.

"Humor me. Just a brief description."

"Two eyes, two ears," he started jokingly, shifting in the uncomfortable chair and wondering what he had to say to get out of her office. "Someone who's seen a bit of the world, seen what it's about, warts and all."

"Someone who can handle what you do." There was a sympathetic smile on her face.

"Most people can't," he answered bluntly, completely forgoing the usual jab and parry of their typical conversations and settling for brute honesty. "You've talked half the guys through one or two divorces, watched their lives fall apart. Wives leaving because they can't take the pressure. Not knowing if he's gonna be coming home with a bullet or in a body bag."

"But they manage. And most of them keep trying."

"Lot of alimony, if you ask me."

"A relationship can serve as a valuable buffer against the stress of the job, Davis." With a quick shake of her head, she lifted her reading glasses to their perch and turned back to the file. "You told me you've been having nightmares and I gave you a bottle of chemicals to help you sleep. I won't lie to you, medication is not the best option. Maybe you need someone there to chase the nightmares away."

"Right poetic, Doc."

"And quite true."

Spike exhaled slowly as he organized his thoughts, "Maybe it's not about the big things, the Shakespeare love and death scenes. What is love anyway? Sacrifice? Pain? Maybe it doesn't have to be." He paused, noting the quiet look of expectation on her face and plunged back into it. "Maybe you can fall in love and be with the same woman for a lifetime without questioning, without wondering if there's anyone else out there. Maybe you can fall in love and drown in someone. Love them so much that you'll change your life, change yourself, change everything because they seep into you, into your blood, until you think you can't be anything without them. Even if it's wrong."

"What do you mean by wrong?"

"The usual." He wasn't sure what he meant, knew that it was more than just the usual, deeper and more complex. "Maybe that's love and maybe it's not. Maybe it doesn't need to be about how long you were with her or how much you changed for her."

"Maybe it's about the little things?"

"Yeah. Maybe it's about finding someone who sees the same shades of gray, who knows that inside every honest man is a thief and doesn't care. Judging someone by their actions instead of who or what they are. Someone who will take you the way you are, without changes, without question. Who wants you for all the reasons you're wrong as well as the reasons you're right." He trailed off, lost in thought as he tried to make sense of the words. "Guess I believe that I'll know her when I find her. That she'll just…fit."

"Until then?"

"Until then I'm not going to worry about it." Suddenly aware of his rambling and unexpected revelation, he straightened self-consciously in the chair and struggled not to look unnerved.

Closing the file abruptly, she smiled with a comforting cheerfulness. "I know you're itching to get out of here, Davis. It's one of the qualities that makes you a good cop, you love the work."

"Thanks." Spike stood up, half saluting as he returned the smile.

"One favor. Next time you're in here, Mr. Williams, I want to hear that you're out there looking for her."

He winked again on his way out. "It's a deal."

Lost in thought, he made his way through the hallways toward the crime lab. Where had all of that come from and why did it feel so real? So personal. More flashes, bits and pieces of dreams. That voice. If he wasn't crazy then it was either a memory or someone was fucking with his head. Neither could be ruled out until he'd made more progress on that list of psychics Gage had pulled out of the phone book. The murders had put a crimp in their evening activities and he hadn't been able to really dig into the search. Of the three psychic and New Age shops he'd visited, he was instinctively sure there wasn't a single bit of bona fide magic or supernatural in the building. There were still a lot of maybes and maybes didn't solve murder cases.

Deciding to worry about cryptic dreams and Dr. Coleman's fixation with his love life after he'd put the Dollhouse Killer behind bars, he rapped sharply on the crime lab door before edging it open. "Clear?" He'd made the mistake of barging into Tyler Adams' lab only once; he'd knocked over a stack of petrie dishes and ruining three weeks worth of analysis. The chemist was a little strange. but he did good work and could berate a careless soul along with the best drill sergeants.

"Blue skies," Tyler called out from somewhere in the maze of desks and computers. That was his code phrase for _All Clear_.

"Heard you've got good news for me." Spike cautiously moved a stack of print outs and settled onto a chair.

"Weird news." Gold-rimmed glasses appeared around the corner. Those and the short brown hair sticking out at odd angles gave Tyler his trademark flustered look. He always seemed to be in the middle of something, juggling projects like a three ring circus and pursuing his own worlds of thought. Digging through the mounds of paper that had turned into an avalanche on his desk, he finally produced a thick tan packet and tossed it to Spike. "Your suspect has a history you wouldn't believe. I pulled the prints and ran them through the usual databases, etc, etc."

"What'd you find?" Spike opened the packet and frowned as several case files slipped out.

"Same prints in a mass murder in Sunnydale, California. Six people in a train car. About the same time, a bunch of lawyers bit the dust in Los Angeles. Identical prints found at both scenes and, you'll love this, there was a lovely porcelain doll on the train in Sunnydale. Blindfolded and everything."

"Same guy."

"Woman. I think." Tyler grinned and tapped one of the case files. "Open up the Los Angeles one. What do you call killing off a bunch of lawyers?"

Spike raised an eyebrow, "Not a clue."

"A good start." Chuckling at his own joke, Tyler sorted through the papers. "There were survivors from this one. A Lindsey McDonald was one of them. He's an assistant D.A. in Oklahoma now and well known for doing pro bono cases. There were a couple other survivors but they disappeared about three years ago, McDonald is the only one still alive and accounted for. Here's the catch, he's not talking. None of them ever did and their law firm pretty much took the LAPD for a ride."

"You did all this yourself?"

"Got curious." Tyler cleared himself a seat. "First, I called Sunnydale to check with their forensics and ask them about the investigation. They laughed."

"Laughed?"

"Yeah. Said it wasn't their jurisdiction."

"What?"

"That's what I thought. So I called Los Angeles and they directed me to a Kate Lockley. Former homicide for LAPD with a bit of a Mulder reputation. She's up north in San Francisco running a private detective agency now. A little suspicious but very helpful with what happened to the survivors of the Los Angeles massacre. She didn't seem to like the lawyers much either."

"But no one's found anything on the killer." He frowned down at the photographs. It had to be the same killer. Same wounds on the necks of the victims, the doll, the fingerprints. At the very least, it was enough for him.

"Not a thing and this Lockley woman told me it was hopeless. In a few more words than that. Basically, she thinks the killer won't ever be caught. Can't be caught was closer to what she said."

"Great. Why'd you say woman?"

"Ms. Lockley." Eyes sparkling excitedly, Tyler sifted through the pages and pulled out a piece of notepaper. "Said our best chance finding the bitch who did this was talking to someone at this number. I didn't ask how she figured it was a woman but she seemed pretty sure about it. Kinda got the impression there was a lot she wasn't telling me."

"Angel Investigations." Spike stared down at the numbers. Familiarity stirred. Strangely enough, he didn't feel compelled to call the number and discover what waited at the other end of the phone lines.

"My guess? There're probably more murders out there with this chick's signature written all over them if we knew where to look. She's a Houdini though, has to be if she's getting away with it."

"If she's a serial." Taking a deep breath, Spike closed the folder. "Then she's FBI. Any red flags come up when you ran the prints?"

"No. I wanted to talk to you before I started the dominoes crashing. You know the feds, they'll come in and screw everything up."

"But they've got more resources. If the killer's been on the west coast, we'll need them to bridge the gap." He wasn't happy about handing over his case to the FBI, even if it meant he wouldn't have to deal with the press any more.

"There's a clear connection to Sunnydale, less so to Los Angeles. Just two might not be enough for them to stick their noses in."

"Your mind works in diabolical ways, Ty." Spike slipped the case files back into the envelope and stood up. "How long?"

"I'll sit on them 'til the end of the week at least. If someone hasn't picked up on it by now, they won't. You know the feds, can't find their asses with both hands. Don't quote me on that though, probably get me thrown in jail."

"Yeah. Anything else?"

"Still working on the murder weapon. The autopsy reports should be on your desk in a few hours and the ME will be in later if you have questions." Tyler disappeared into a canyon of file folders and books. "Found one interesting thing on the wounds that supports Ms. Lockley's theory. Trace amounts of lipstick. Ran a check on the dye and came up with a few matches. My favorite – Wicked Plum."

"She bit them?" They'd tested every type of two-pronged instrument that could have been used to pierce the skin of the victims. Every type but one. Teeth. Vampire teeth. Studying the photographs again, he realized that he'd suspected it all along.

"Chromatography results should be in with the autopsies and since Merritt wants a blow by blow of this rat's nest, I sent him a copy of my results too."

"Thanks."

"No problem, Spike. Just nail the psycho for me." The chemist's back was disappearing back into the depths of the lab, his mind already moving on to his next project.

"Count on it." Envelope bouncing lightly against his thigh, Spike left the crime lab and went in search of his partner.

Can't be caught. It made sense. Had it happened a week ago, he wouldn't have believed it could be a woman and all of his training, all of his experience would have led him in the wrong direction. Serial mass murderers were extremely rare and broke most of the profiling models; if the killer was a woman, she was that much more unusual. One of a kind even. They'd be writing books about her for decades. But that was a week ago. Looking at the pictures from Sunnydale and Los Angeles, he had a pretty good idea of what had killed those people.

No luck for the reporters looking for a Pulitzer and crime writers who needed a bestseller. He couldn't say anything, didn't dare even mention it to Gage. People didn't want to know what lurked in the shadows after they were tucked safely in bed, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Kate Lockley knew and possibly the people at Angel Investigations knew as well. Not the Sunnydale PD's jurisdiction? What was that supposed to mean? Any murder within the town limits was their jurisdiction. It wasn't what they were saying that Spike found the most fascinating; it was what they weren't saying. At least he knew what he was looking for. A vampire with a fetish for dolls and massacres.

How many vampires like that could there be?

"Spike!" Gage caught his attention, juggling two cups of coffee and a stack of napkins. "Merritt red-lined a couple of leads that need to be taken care of. High profile stuff, you know the drill."

"Let me guess. The Mayor's wife saw a prowler and thinks it's our killer." Spike shook his head without bothering to hide his disgust. Power was power and they all toed the line like good little soldiers when it came to the members of the Boston elite. Accepting the coffee, he followed Gage through the main floor and into the elevator. "Got prints and some interesting info from Ty."

"Finally something other than crackpots with goth neighbors. I am so sick of this vampire shit."

"Either our killer's female or a cross dresser."

"Huh?"

Spike grinned, watching his partner's eyes widen. "Lipstick on the wounds and get this, two more killing sprees to match our lovely lady's profile." He dug out the photographs from Sunnydale and Los Angeles as they started across the parking garage. "Same prints. Former detective from LA says it's a woman and we'll need more than the luck of the Irish to catch her."

"No shit." Gage frowned down at the photos as he climbed into the squad car. "Why haven't the Feds picked up on it?"

"No idea. Ty's gonna sit on it for us."

"May his pocket protector never crack." Laughing, he started the engine and handed the pictures back. "At least we have a ballpark to play in now. Here's the address for the club. Navigate."

Spike tossed the folder into the back seat and buckled up as they left the garage. "Dreamscape?"

"Don't ask me about it yet, I'm still pissed off." He gunned the engine for emphasis, tires squealing out of the parking stall. "I did talk to someone who sells those freaky dolls while you were in getting your head checked. Apparently Chucky-ette isn't a run of the mill Matell assembly line special, she's a collector's item and worth a bundle if you're into that kind of thing." Sandy blond hair shone as they pulled into the sunlight, accenting Gage's tan skin and hazel eyes. "Memo, doll collectors are weird. Not weird in a Mystery Science 3000 way either. More like Boo Radley in a dress."

"Boo Radley was a good guy."

"Still freaky."

"Missed the tolerance workshop?"

"Yada, yada and you know what I think of that PC bullshit. Criminal is criminal, don't care if the asshole has purple polka dots or zebra stripes."

"Fangs?" Spike raised an eyebrow as Gage stopped at a red light.

"Where do you think the vampire myth came from?" He fiddled with the radio for a second. "I read about that psycho, Vlad Tepish, in high school. The guy who drank the blood of his enemies and stuck heads on spikes or whatever. And people with that skin condition who can't go out in the day. Maybe that's where this all started."

"Or vampires could be real," Spike suggested with a grin.

"And you were a vampire in a past life." Gage rolled his eyes and accelerated through the intersection, weaving through traffic deftly. "How're those nightmares coming anyway? You've been pretty Rainbow Brite the last couple of days. No freaking out, no smoking, no new hair colors. Not that the blond doesn't look awesome on you. What's up?"

"Better living through chemicals, my friend."

"Coleman give you the green light?"

"Wants me to settle down and get a dog."

"You get the spiel too?" Gage laughed before giving Spike a carefully masked once over, trying to hide his relief. "Just stress then?"

"Doctor's prescription, the love of a good woman." Spike almost laughed at the familiar male posturing of showing emotion without showing emotion. Worrying without admitting that they were worrying. It was comforting to know that despite the casual banter, Gage would have done anything to help him. Would still do anything if Spike needed him.

"That's what I'm talking about. Soon as Doll Lady is in prison orange, we're hitting the town and you, my friend, are getting laid." He slapped one hand on Spike's shoulder playfully as he slid the car into a parking space. "Glad to have you back, partner o' mine."

"Glad to be back, mate." Even if it meant keeping his mouth shut and not ruining Gage's pretty picture of the world. In this case, ignorance probably provided a certain level of security if not safety. He would see it eventually. All Spike could do now was watch his partner's back and wait for the case, the moment, where that comfortable naiveté would be stripped away. Truthfully, the nightmares had been the best prep work he could have hoped for, opening his eyes without plunging him into a life-threatening situation right away. They had planted the ideas and he'd been so thrilled to realize that he wasn't going crazy that he hadn't freaked out or panicked. Well, maybe a little.

"Right. Here's the quick and dirty version." Gage squinted at the scribbled note in his hand. "The Mayor's daughter, princess that she is, hangs out here on a regular basis. And the young lady, who is such a reliable judge of character and can tell a criminal from a pineapple, has seen a suspicious young man hanging around and talking about the killings. So we're putting the good citizens' tax dollars to work and investigating this nightclub."

"Want to try that without the sarcasm this time?"

"Tastes better with it."

"Does anyone know we're coming?"

"I was hoping that the element of surprise would enable us to catch the pineapple. I mean the killer."

Trying hard not to laugh, Spike climbed out of the car. It was an innocuous brick building with an inset double door entrance framed by posters advertising Ladies Night and a live DJ on Friday nights. The feeling of déjà vu was so common that he almost dismissed it before he glanced down the street and realized that it was less than fifty yards from the alley where one of the victims had been killed. Frowning, he ducked back into the car and pulled the map of Boston out of the glove box. He knew every location by memory, every detail branded into his consciousness after he'd seen the bodies in the warehouse. He'd been there somehow, seen it happen, in one of the dreams where his brain was being hijacked by a psychotic killer. Why the bitch wanted him to watch people die, see through her eyes as she killed them, was beyond him. He figured it was all part of an elaborate mind fuck. Probably just for kicks.

"Spike?"

Spike held up one hand in a wait signal before fishing a pen out of his shirt pocket and marking dark X's where he had seen the deaths. "Here, here, here. These are the places I saw in my dreams, where the people died. Here, here." His frown deepened as he added the last mark and double-checked the address of the club. The murder sites formed a near perfect circle and sitting at the center was Dreamscape.

"Holy shit," Gage whispered.

Maybe the killer didn't even realize that they were linked somehow, that he had dreamed her picking and choosing the victims. He'd seen a hundred thousand more in older clothes, foreign clothes, from every city and walk of life that he could recall. She'd let him in to the blood soaked memories of her past and now, he was convinced that he'd found her almost by accident. He'd been reluctant to put down the locations on the map, as though it would make the dreams come to life. Now he'd stumbled into her rabbit hole and his skin was almost tingling with the anticipation of finally putting a face to the voice that had haunted him. There was just one problem now. Gage.

"Maybe this won't be such a waste of time after all." Gage glanced up and down the street before starting toward the club, pounding on the door loud enough to alert someone to their presence. During broad daylight, the building looked deserted.

Spike didn't say anything, merely shrugging and checking the badge clipped to his belt as he refolded and stowed the map. In and out, talk to the management and get Gage out of there. That was the plan. Then he would be free to come back later and find her. Sure, the case would be unsolved and the killer would never be behind bars, but he would know that she wouldn't be killing any more innocent people. Just a pile of dust was all that would be left behind by the time he was finished with the Dollhouse Killer.

The manager of Dreamscape had a irritated look on her face when she opened the door. "What do you want?"

"Detective Matthews and Detective Williams, ma'am." Gage held up his badge. "Just need to ask you and the staff a few questions."

"This is about Jake, isn't it?" She ran her fingers through limp blond hair with a sigh. "Come in then. It's a waste of your time but ask away. I'm sure Jenny's dad wants to make sure his baby is safe."

"Jenny?" Spike stepped into the cool darkness of the building.

"Jennifer Mondale. Mayor's daughter." She shrugged and motioned for them to follow her. "I've got some of the cleaning and bar staff here now, but you'll have to come back later to catch the bouncers. There's not much we can tell you. Jake's a regular. On the weird side, probably didn't have a date all through high school and isn't doing much better now that he's in college."

"How do you know he's in college?"

"He's got the look. Burning the candle at both ends. See enough of them, you get to know the signs." Ushering them into the main room, she nodded toward the bar. "Jake's been following Jenny around like a lost puppy dog for the past few weeks. She probably just wants him to get lost."

"What kind of crowd do you normally get?" Spike ran one hand down the smooth surface of the bar, watching the shadowy reflection in the bottles mimic his movements.

"All kinds, especially when classes are on. We used to get a lot more of the goth type. Black clothes, black hair, most with vampire fixations. I know a lot of the regulars and they're good people with unusual clothing tastes. Not a one of them actually thinks they're really a vampire, they just like to be open to that kind of thing. Ghosts, paranormal, that kind of stuff." Digging a bottled water out of the cooler, she politely offered them one before leaning against the bar.

"No one suspicious then." Claiming one of the bar stools, Spike sat down and continued his perusal of the surroundings. Where was she? Underground? Was there a basement? Sewer access maybe. Did the manager even know the killer was nearby? She cast a reflection so she wasn't a vampire.

"I'm pretty sure the tip you got was about Jake and it's probably just a cruel joke. But I can give you a description or you can come back tonight and see him for yourself, I'm sure he'll be here. He's just a dumb kid though." Shaking her head tiredly, she rolled the bottle of water against her temple. "I get a few of the It crowd every year, sometimes I have to tell the guys to keep their eyes out for the occasional psycho or let the bodyguards brief them before their clients show up. They say jump, I say how high on the way up. Jenny's a good kid, but she's a drama queen."

"So you're sure there's nothing to this."

"Absolutely."

"Then you won't mind if we come back tonight and ask Jake a few questions." Spike smiled, ignoring her sigh. "I promise we'll try to blend."

"A few yards of black leather, Detective and you'd fit right in. Your partner, on the other hand, screams Long Island." She waved at Gage, giving him the once over.

"Hey!" Gage grinned broadly. "I happen to be from Long Island, thank you very much. But I'll defer to my partner in this and allow him to instruct me in proper club wear."

"It's really not his fault. He was born with a bloody silver spoon in his mouth and his parents are so disappointed in him." Spike turned on the charm and winked, pleased when she seemed to relax and give them a genuine smile. "But don't worry about us, we won't ruin your business. I'm assuming you have patrons who wouldn't be happy to see the police."

"I have patrons who like to think they're on the wrong side of the law and I have a few who probably are. It's impossible to keep them all out even when you try as hard as you can. I'm more worried that Jenny Mondale and her pack of harpies will look at you two like a pair of hot fudge sundaes. The last thing you need to do your job is a bunch of prima donnas asking to see your guns and badges. The last thing I need too. They'll be screaming over every little thing to get you back here again." She raised one eyebrow at Gage's surprised expression. "Oh come on, you both look like something out of GQ and you know it."

"I guess that's a compliment. I didn't catch your name."

"Probably because I don't hand it out."

"Don't suppose you could make an exception."

"You'd probably just arrest me if I didn't. It's Marian."

Spike almost laughed when he realized that Gage was flirting. Shaking his head, he abandoned the stool to look around. Wandering past the DJ booth, he felt almost at home in the dim lights with speaker stacks in the corners and rows of theater lighting hanging from the ceiling. It was easy to picture the crowd, stomping and writhing to the rhythm of the music, bathed in the flashing lights and the heady scent of alcohol, sweat, and smoke. Almost familiar. It had been a few years since he'd hit the club circuit. Coming back later than night wouldn't have to be all about work, he could get in some of that looking he'd promised Dr. Coleman he'd do. Of course, he still had to convince Gage to stay away until he found the vampire.

"You lookin' for something?" The nasal voice cut through Spike's thoughts. A tall, muscular man was standing in the doorway wiping his hands on a dish towel.

"Just looking," Spike responded casually, pivoting just enough for the man to get a good look at the gun holster and badge.

"Hard to find something if you don't know what you're lookin' for," the dishwasher answered cryptically, tossing the towel over his shoulder and taking a step back.

"I know what I'm looking for."

"That so? Or just figuring you'll know it when you see it?" An ugly smile spread across his face.

"Maybe," Spike answered guardedly. He was beginning to think that the man was the kind who didn't show up in a mirror.

"Could be that whatever you're lookin' for, it's lookin' for you too." With a shrug, the man reached to the right and flipped a latch. Spike realized that it was a door, nearly invisible in the wall until it slipped out a fraction of an inch.

"Could be." Cautiously, he took a step toward the door, keeping an eye on the hulking brute in the hallway. The dishwasher was still grinning evilly over his shoulder as he turned around and started down the hall, disappearing into a doorway at the far end. Behind the thin panel was a set of narrow steps descending into the basement storage area.

Spike glanced back once to see that Gage was still talking with the manager before slipping into the darkness, taking the steps slowly as he crept into the shadows. The tickling sensation along his spine increased as the stairs leveled out. Feeling around for a switch, he squinted against the sudden flood of light as a bank of fluorescent lights sprung to life. Boxes of supplies and crates of liquor were stacked around the room, spread over the floor in a maze of corridors. At the far end, another door beckoned irresistibly. Padding silently through the boxes, both eyes on the door ahead, he could hear the staccato of his heartbeat as it sped up in anticipation.

The musty smell of earth and mold greeted him as he opened the door, scraping the bottom against the concrete floor loudly. Holding his breath, he listened intently for any sign that his prey had heard the sounds. Nothing but silence. Oppressive as a tomb, the air was stale and ancient, trapped beneath the surface of the earth for years, undisturbed. His footsteps were muted by the heavy layer of dust as he moved down the corridor. A tunnel. It was narrow, barely enough for two men standing shoulder to shoulder and slanted just slightly downhill. He kept his fingers on the wall to keep him oriented; it was too dark to make out anything but vague outlines of shadows as he kept walking. The tunnel turned right and then left; it became colder and darker with each step he took.

Twin slivers of light appeared around a final right turn, tall and hair-thin, he approached what he hoped was a door with one hand on his gun and the other stretched out in front of him. Rough wood met his fingertips, giving slightly as he applied pressure. He pushed harder and it drifted inward on well-oiled hinges to reveal a dimly lit room. A single light bulb hummed in the center of the underground room, illuminating several support beams and a few scattered crates. Another set of stairs. Probably an access tunnel between buildings, functioning as a supply route or a quick method of getting between two establishments. Then again, it could have been built to facilitate the movement of certain flammable patrons during the daylight hours. Curious, he stepped into the room and started toward the steps on the other side.

He felt her before he saw her.

Whirling around, his eyes caught the quick movement of metal a second before a pale arm snaked out of the darkness and 20,000 volts screamed into his side. Nerves barely registered hitting the ground as they raced to account for being hit with the stun gun. Fabric whispered softly, his eyes struggling to focus as she stepped into the dim light, electricity still crackling ominously in her hand. Tall and elegant, her raven hair was swept up into a pile of curls with tendrils trailing down her neck enticingly. Alabaster skin was wrapped in deep blue velvet and black leather, molded to her lithe body like a glove.

Ruby lips curled into a smile as she tipped her head to the side and gazed hungrily down at him. "I like this game much better."

* * *

"Miss Hawkins? Frye Birkman at your service."

For a second, Faith didn't realize the man was talking to her. Until he held out his hand expectantly and she remembered that she'd chosen the name Faith Hawkins to go along with her new life. Mustering a cautious smile, she shook his hand firmly before pulling away and stuffing her hands back into her jacket pockets awkwardly.

"They sent me to pick you up, give you the options, etc. etc." He was tall, legs stretched out impossibly long in front of him as he sat in the chair. Surrounded by the Sunnydale gang, he looked out of place with tousled brown hair that stuck out around his ears, freckles across the bridge of his nose, and an infectiously cheerful smile. Worn sneakers poked out of crisply pressed trousers as he tapped his feet to an unheard drummer and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing incongruously tanned, well-toned arms.

"Cool." Faith was already feeling awkward with everyone trailing through the airport to say goodbye.

"Don't let me rain on the Going Away Parade. You've got me for the whole flight so there's no rush." Hazel eyes sparkled playfully.

The smile she gave him was stiffly mechanical, an automatic response rather than the desire to use those muscles. Instead of talking, she turned back to the motley group of Scoobies that had collected in the terminal. Surprisingly, most of them had produced going away presents of some kind before leaving the Summers house. Nothing grand, they had insisted as they pushed and mashed everything into the brand new luggage set. It left her searching for the right thing to do, a fish out of water gasping for breath and doomed to flop around pathetically until it died. That was a morbid comparison; a stark contrast to the bright, if slightly forced, laughter of the strange group of friends.

It had all happened so fast. She'd jumped at the chance to get out of Sunnydale and actually get paid for what she would do anyway. Iverson had gone through the contract with a fine-tooth comb and explained every paragraph in more detail than Faith had wanted. But she was touched that he even cared enough to do that. Enough to ask her what she wanted. A few signatures later, there was a new identity in her hands and she could finally lay Faith Lehane to rest with the past she wanted to forget. There was barely time enough to secure a new set of clothes and the luggage to pack them in before the plane ticket arrived and the reality of her new life finally began to sink in. She wondered if this was how it felt to graduate from high school or move away to go to college. Maybe she could take a few classes, get her GED at least. Between killing monsters, there was probably time for that much. Hell, Buffy had been inching her way through a college degree for years so it had to be possible.

Dawn's hand rested lightly on her elbow, pale fingers brushing long brown hair back from her shoulder. "You know you're always welcome here."

"Yeah, I know." Time for the awkward goodbyes. Steeling herself against unwanted emotions, she plastered a half smile on her face and quickly hugged Dawn goodbye. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Like that eliminates anything." Dawn rolled her eyes as she pulled away. "But I promise not to kill anything human at least."

"Good. Unless it's Xander on one of his comic book rants and then you're totally cool to ice him."

"Ugh. Don't tempt me." Stepping back to make way for the rest of the Scoobies, Dawn took a seat to wait for the rest to say their goodbyes.

"Well, good luck and everything." Willow was bouncing a little as she stepped up to give Faith an awkward hug, enveloping the Slayer in the scent of incense and cinnamon. "Let us know if you need anything, kay?"

Faith quickly disentangled herself from the witch's arms, but managed a smile. "Thanks. For everything."

"Hey, anything for a fellow Scoob."

Red was replaced by blonde and Faith found herself staring down at her boots, wondering what she was supposed to say to Buffy. The last few weeks had been more than civil, almost friendly, and she had actually started to wonder if there would ever be a day that the tension between them would finally disappear forever.

"I'm a little jealous," Buffy said softly. "Off to see the world. All those exotic places and I'll still be stuck on the Hellmouth. Again."

Faith shrugged, glancing anywhere but Buffy's earnest face. "We sorta talked about traveling after it was all over. Spike and me. I think that he wanted to see England again."

"I'm sure he'd be glad you're leaving. Sunnydale wasn't the best place for either of you." Buffy could be so soft, so warm, when she wanted to be. It was a side that Faith had only just begun to see, the pieces of Buffy that were usually reserved for Dawn or the rest of the gang.

"Yeah." She couldn't think of anything else to say.

Buffy's hand touched her arm, warmth seeping through the jacket sleeve. "Just don't die, okay? And call if you need anything."

"Sure." Faith risked a look up, seeing the familiar smile of comfort and concern. Acting on impulse, she caught Buffy's hand before she pulled away. "If you need help. Big bad or something. Let me know."

"Thanks. We will." Her fingers tightened for a moment before she stepped back and Faith shoved her hand back in the jacket pocket. Giles had already said his goodbye, as English and Watchery as it was, and he merely nodded her directly. That left one more. Xander. Unexpectedly, she noted that the others moved away once he started toward her, putting more distance between them.

"Looks like they don't want to be in crossfire." Xander had his hands buried in his pants pockets.

"Worried over nothing then. That little pocket rocket of yours would probably take me on if I tried anything." Faith felt her face flush and winced. "I meant Jane. Not in a sex way at all. Shit. I'm just going to fuck this up."

"Hey, it's cool. And that's a pretty accurate description of her. Referring to her size, of course." The smile was familiar even if it had been years since she'd seen it.

"Yeah, well. I think I've heard it all. Call if you need anything, don't die, yada, yada. And my flight's ready to board, so why don't we just skip to the handshake or whatever we're supposed to do and call it good." She blushed deeper when she realized that she was rambling, unable to meet Xander's gaze. There was no animosity or hostility in his face and that surprised her.

"I just hope you know that they all meant it. There're not just the words you tell people before they fly away and never come back." He shook his head when she opened her mouth to protest. "I'm not saying you should come back and no one really expects you to. There are a lot of memories in this place and sometimes it's hard to make new ones when you're surrounded by all the ghosts. Besides, lots of places need a Slayer like you."

She smiled in spite of herself. "Like me?"

"I know it makes you uncomfortable, the whole talking thing. Especially with me, for some unknown reason that both of us will take to the grave rather than talk about like civilized adults. But there's one thing I wanted to tell you." Even with her jaw clenched tightly to keep any sound from escaping, the breath caught in her throat as he pulled her tightly against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. His voice was tender, whispering against her hair. "It'll get easier, I promise. You'll always wonder what it would be like if he was there, with you. But it gets easier."

Closing her eyes tightly, she buried her face against the soft cloth of his t-shirt and swallowed back the shaky tears that were hell-bent on embarrassing her further. It was comfort, pure and unconditional comfort, and just for a moment, she let him comfort her. Before she pushed away firmly and tried to give him a real smile, because he knew how she felt.

"Thanks, Xander." Then it was awkward, shuffling feet and hmm-hawing a sloppy goodbye.

There was a lot of waving as she draped the strap of the duffle bag over her shoulder and forced herself to make her way to the terminal. Concentrating on the tennis shoes of the unflappable Frye Birkman, she managed to get through the crowds of people and give her ticket to the right maroon vested woman with too much hairspray and eye make-up. Luggage checked and only the duffle at her side, she bumped down the narrow aisle of the 767, following Birkman automatically and hoping that their seats were together. Ridiculous, of course, since he was just as much of a stranger as anyone else on the flight.

"You look nervous. Don't like to fly?" He nodded toward a bank of seats. "Take the window if you want. I'll get your bag."

"Thanks." She kept her voice cool, unwilling to let him know how grateful she was for the offer. The chance to get away from strangers' eyes and be safely hidden, anonymous, among the upholstered seats. Squeezing past him, she buckled herself in quickly and turned her face to the window, staring bleakly out at the tarmac.

"This plane lands in New York and where you go after that is up to you. The options are almost limitless actually. We have teams in most of the major cities of the world." Frye buckled in next to her, his long legs at angles to keep his knees from bumping the seat in front of him. "If you want to stay stateside, there are a few dozen teams who'd love to have you."

It was a strange feeling to be wanted, coveted. To be the sought after commodity. The teams didn't care that she wasn't Buffy, only that she was one of the three Slayers and that she was possibly going to work with them. Dragging her gaze from the narrow window, she tried to pay attention to what he was saying. Places she could go and build a new life; the whole world had opened up to her and she felt like a child stepping out into reality for the first time, unprepared and frightened. But anything was better than Sunnydale and gradually, tiny butterflies of excitement began to flutter inside her stomach.

"I can tell you where I'd want you to go, if that means anything to you." She wasn't sure if there was any double meaning hidden in his words, couldn't read his hazel eyes or pick any nuances out of his smooth baritone voice. "Boston. We've got our hands full there and a Slayer could really make a difference."

"Boston," she repeated dumbly. "I grew up in Boston." In half the time. She'd hit the street after her mother had woken up one morning following a drunken binge and demanded to know who she was, what she was doing in the house. A few days later she met her first Watcher and the rest was all part of the same hazy nightmare.

"Even better. You already know the ropes and you can get right in. I gotta tell you, Boston's the place to be right now." Frye glanced around quickly as the plane began to taxi down the runway. "You all right?"

"Fine," Faith answered shortly, shying away from his concern.

"I run command central for the Boston group, keep everyone connected and the info fresh off the press. We've been tracking rumors of a vampire taking over the underground for the few years, but we don't have much on him. Calls himself a Master."

"They all do," she added dryly.

He gave her a lopsided grin as he nodded. "The guy's an eel. He's got connections and an army of minions besides. We think he's actually someone pretty high up in the Boston social scene. Far as we can tell, he's definitely living in the now. We've traced restaurants, dance clubs, bars, shipping companies, and storage warehouses. All fronts for him, run by people he controls and I'm pretty sure it doesn't stop there. It probably goes all the way to the Mayor."

"It usually is the Mayor."

"I heard Sunnydale had a bad one a few years back."

Faith turned away and hoped that was enough to end the conversation. "You could say that."

"Anyway, if that doesn't peak your interest, we've got someone else who might. She's one of the most unique vampires we've come across. Special Ops tracked her halfway across the globe and she's settled in Boston for the time being, killed a few people and made a few headlines. Crazy as a loon. They say she has at least one Slayer to her name."

"Drusilla," Faith murmured softly, it could only be her. "Just one Slayer. Kendra."

"Good to know." He shifted in the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. "We've got a few files on her. Where she came from, that kind of thing. Gotta say, I'm glad I wasn't in Europe when all four of them were still together. Angelus, Darla, Drusilla, and William the Bloody. Can you imagine?"

She stared down at her hands. "I never met Darla or Dru, but I know Angel pretty well."

"Now that he's got a soul. That's some seriously twisted stuff. I guess Darla's been dust twice now, according to the file, and William the Bloody disappeared a few years ago. Until you found him."

Wincing, she unconsciously reached for the scars on her wrists, rubbing them nervously.

He regarded her somberly for a moment. "Hell, if I'd killed the vampire who'd taken out two Slayers, I'd be bragging about it to everyone I met."

"You didn't know him," she spat fiercely.

"Okay, okay. No problem." For a moment, he was silent, watching her intently. "Did he give you those scars?"

"What?" Faith glanced down at her hands, noticed that she was tracing the pale skin banded around her wrists. "No. He saved my life. Don't talk about him, please."

"Oh. Guess I don't know much about it."

"You don't know anything about him." She rested her head against the seat and watched the land drift by below them, peeking out of the fluffy white clouds.

"Right. Back to business then." He pulled a briefcase out of the overhead bin and sat back down. "Here's a list of places you can go."

"Boston," she responded quickly. "I'm going to Boston."

"Great." Shuffling through the contents of the case, he dug out a thick manilla packet. "Everything you'll need is in there. I've got a car waiting for me at the airport so I'll drop you off. Apartment keys, car keys, spending money until you get an account set up, and all the documentation you'll need. You'll have to furnish the place by yourself, of course, but it's pretty swank."

The packet was heavy, sitting in her lap like a lead weight. Did she really want to go to Boston? Back home to the old stomping grounds where there were more ghosts and demons than real, human memories. Back to where it had all started. Maybe she could finally put them to rest and leave them behind her. Spike would be proud of her, even encourage her to face the past. And there was Drusilla. She couldn't deny that she wanted to meet the vampire who had held Spike's heart for a hundred years; she wanted to ask her a few questions, wanted to hear stories of what her dark warrior had been before Sunnydale and the chip. On the plus side, if the vampire Master who'd set himself up to rule Boston actually turned out to be someone high up, the Mayor even, maybe she could make up for her own alliance with Mayor Wilkins by preventing another Mayor Wilkins. Maybe.

_Welcome to adulthood, Faith_, she told herself amusedly as she fiddled with the edges of the packet. No more little girl. She would be part of a team and there would be people depending on her, innocents needing to be saved. Slayers had responsibilities. Determined to tune out the man beside her and hoping to get some sleep, she closed her eyes and curled against the seat. The steady thrum of the engine was soothing in her ears, vibrations lulling her into a semi relaxed state as the bright clouds wisped by her window.

* * *

By the time the world stopped moving, Spike had a pretty good idea what airline luggage felt like. After being trussed up like a turkey, blind folded and thrown over the shoulder of what had to be another vampire, he was carried, dragged, and finally dumped unceremoniously into another basement. All the while, the crazy bitch with the tazer was humming and singing nursery rhymes.

"Hey," Spike protested as his arms were yanked roughly behind him and secured to a support pillar. "I bruise easily." His only response was a grunt and the tightening of the rope around his wrists.

"You have been a bad, bad boy," came the sing-song voice of the psychotic vampire. "Running away from mummy, hiding away where she couldn't find you."

"Give the old bird my apologies." Spike twisted, trying to decide where her voice was coming from. Her laughter was a soft alto rumble, bubbly like a schoolgirl, and he felt the cold touch of her fingers against his cheek.

"They tried to keep you from me, my dark knight. Buried you away so you wouldn't know me." Fingernails scratched lightly down his neck. "But the stars whispered it to me…told me where to find you. To bring you home."

"I don't suppose anyone has told you that you don't make a whit of sense, luv," Spike answered wryly. "Be a doll and take the blindfold off."

He was surprised when she complied, icy fingers moving behind his head to untie the scarf and pull it away from his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he immediately sought her out and tried to soak in every detail of her face. Blue eyes, smooth skin without a mark or scar anywhere to be seen. She was wearing heavy eyeliner and mascara, giving her eyes a smoky look. The voice, he knew from the dreams. He was amused to discover that she didn't make any more sense in real life than she did in her inflicted hallucinations. Strangely enough, he realized that he wasn't afraid of her.

"You were supposed to play." Her eyes were far away, looking into her own world. "But you didn't stay until the end and the curtain fell without you. Ruined all the fun, couldn't read all the lines."

"All very well, I'm sure." The ropes were snug, rubbing only slightly against his skin as he tested their strength.

"Supposed to burn in sunlight, swallowed up into the earth, you were. I saw it playing across the moon." Long dark lashes fluttered as she shifted, leather and velvet stretching around her curves. "You burned up in the heavens instead and they buried you away, sent you back to mend and patch."

"Lovely." He wasn't actually listening to her madness, twisting his hands slowly as he tried to find a weakness in his bonds. The knot was thick and clumsy, gradually working loose under his teasing fingers.

"Dug and dug into the earth and dirt until I found you." One hand slipped through his hair, tangling into the curls. "To bring you back where the Slayer can't touch you, make you my Spike again."

His ears caught on the word again and for the first time, she had his undivided attention. "What are you talking about?" he asked uneasily.

"We'll be a family again. I'll be grandmum and you'll be Daddy."

"You keep saying that word…again."

"Poor little Spike. Doesn't remember. Can't find himself. So lost." She smiled as she kissed his cheek lightly. "Don't worry. Mummy will make it all better again."

"And there's that word." Spike tried to pull away from her. That's when he saw them. A pair of brown boots lying on the cold, stone floor. Feeling as though he'd been doused with ice water, his veins suddenly frozen and stiff, he strained against the ropes as he tried to see what was behind her. Brown boots met cuffs of stone washed blue jeans leading up to the faded plaid button up shirt. A Boston PD badge shone faintly from the belt.

"See? We're a family already." She pulled away from him, moving smoothly along the ground to cradle Gage's deathly pale face in her arms.

"Oh God. No." His lungs refused to expand, bound by a weight he couldn't see or feel. Couldn't breathe. Not Gage. Please, not Gage. Hot tears flooded the back of his eyes when he saw the blood on his partner's lips. He should have told him, should have warned him. Done something, anything to prepare him or at least get him out of harm's way. Beside him, half hidden in the shadows, he saw the limp body of the club manager also stained with blood at her neck and lips.

"All we need is a new Daddy. Our Daddy is lost forever." She pressed a gentle kiss onto Gage's forehead before settling him back onto the ground and returning to Spike's side. "No tears, my William, we'll be happy again."

He hadn't realized he was crying, his eyes locked on the bodies as his mind refused to believe that Gage was gone. Forever. Or at least until he rose again with fangs and bloodlust coursing through dead veins Until he crawled out of the basement and began murdering the very people he had sworn to protect and serve. His throat constricted, cutting off air and forcing him to gasp painfully.

"Mummy will make the pain go away." The vampire whispered into his ear. He could feel her lips against his skin and felt the moment that her face shifted, ridges rising out of smooth skin and fangs slipping past to rub against his neck.

Screaming silently in defiance, he pulled hard against the ropes and tried to shoulder her away from him. It didn't fucking matter what she did to him, if she turned him into a vampire or not, but he wasn't going to let that happen to Gage. Couldn't let that happen. Strong hands took hold of his shoulders and pinned him to the support beam.

"Bad Spike," she cooed.

"Crazy bitch."

The curse dissolved into a hiss as her fangs sunk into his skin. He could feel her sucking his blood through the wounds, hear it slipping past her teeth and down her throat. Everything came crashing back, brutally forcing its way through his consciousness. Blood, death, pain. Memories. Not hers but his. He shook violently against the onslaught of images and sensation that dragged him down into the heart of a world that he had only just discovered. Vampire. Vampire with a chip. He didn't look like a vampire named Spike. He _was_ Spike. A hundred and thirty years pounded into his brain, mixed with a scattering of life. William's memories. Bloody awful poetry, Cecily. Angelus, Angel. Sunnydale, the Initiative. Buffy Summers.

Oh God.

He wanted to throw up.

Cutting through the haze of the past was the realization that someone was screaming. Drusilla. He was thrown to the side with the force of her pushing away from him, clutching her throat and howling with pain. Her lips and chin were burnt, red and blistering as she frantically tried to wipe away his blood. Straining against the ropes, he pulled desperately at the knot until he felt it give and the ropes slipped free. There was nothing he could do for Gage, he was already gone. He moved cautiously toward Drusilla. She was curled into a ball in the corner, whimpering and sobbing.

"Dru…luv." His voice sounded strange in his ears. Raw, accented. Touching her shoulder lightly, he winced when she looked up at him with wet eyes. The skin of her lips had burned away, leaving a garish, skull-like smile red with blood and scorched flesh.

"Spike." The word was harsh, mangled by the damage to her mouth and throat. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes as she tried to cover the grotesque wound with her hands. "Look what you've done," she whispered, her voice shaking with pain. She held out her hands to him; cracks were appearing in her pale skin, spider webbing over her fingers and up her arms. Flakes of gray, dead, skin began to fall away as she trembled. "You've poisoned me."

"I'm sorry. Dru." And he was.

His broken apology was barely audible, buried by the sounds of her crying. Her hands crumbled when he reached for them, collapsing into dust in his fingers. It kept spreading, turning her to ash in his arms. He struggled to hold on to her, his own tears slipping down his cheeks and staining them with her. Blue eyes were wide and sad, the last piece of her to turn gray and disappear into the hollow of her skull a moment before it fell to pieces. He choked on the dust, his hands and arms coated with it. Drained and in shock, he stumbled away from the corner where she had died. His mind was dazed, spinning in circles as he looked around.

There was a pile of packing crates full of paper goods stacked along the wall. Pulling the top crate off of the tower, he hurled it toward the far wall and watched it burst apart, splintering and scattering its contents as it impacted the wall. He found two workable stakes sifting through the debris and numbly crossed the room back to his partner's body. Iron feet and leaden legs dragged, unwilling to move and refusing to bend. Fingers wouldn't close tight enough around the wood, wouldn't grip, wouldn't do what they needed to do. The woman was easier, reaching out with a quick jab that would keep her safely in the ground. Gage's skin was cold to the touch, his body heavy in spite of the loss of blood as Spike lifted his head and shoulders onto his lap. Trembling, he smoothed away a lock of sandy hair, remembering how it would fall into his eyes and the way Gage would go cross-eyed a moment before he brushed it away and laughed about needing a haircut.

"Remember that time you stapled your jacket to the desk?" His voice quavered in the heavy quiet. "Don't know if that was even real, mate. Maybe all those memories of you, being human, being a cop. Maybe those are the lies." He had to close his eyes. Couldn't watch as the stake pierced ribs and skin to drive through Gage's dead heart. The sound was unexpected. Wood ripping through flesh, lukewarm blood oozing up against his hand and threatening to turn his stomach inside out. Why did it have to be Gage?

"Maybe the rest are lies. Maybe Spike is the lie." The words were hollow, echoing through the room as he stroked Gage's hair softly. "I just wanted to protect you." Tears blurred his vision, coming back instantly when he tried to blink them away. "God, I just wanted you to be safe." Finally breaking down, he pulled the body into his arms and sobbed quietly against blood stained skin. "I'm sorry, so sorry, so sorry."

When he had no tears left, his eyes raw and painfully dry, he sunk back against the wall and stared into space. There was dust on his clothes, blood on his skin. That was all that was left of people he had loved, people who had loved him. His brain wasn't functioning enough to do more than replay the events over and over again, searching for a way he could have changed things. If he'd found Dru sooner, if he'd gone looking for her instead of cowering in his feared insanity. If he hadn't just brushed them off as dreams or hallucinations. If he'd known. But he hadn't known that they were real and that his dreams were a hideous mixture of Dru's escapades and his own memories. He really had killed those people. Some of them at least. It was almost as sickening as the sliver of wood sticking garishly out of Gage's chest. Traumatic enough to keep his thought pattern in a permanent loop of avoidance, searching for an escape, a way to explain away the hundred plus years of memories that now lay bare and festering.

There was nothing but pain and more pain. Vaguely he registered that the dates didn't match up, that there was still a gap in his memories from then and now. Bitterly, he dismissed it, not caring how he had gotten from Sunnydale to Boston or what he had been doing in that empty space. Judging from his past, he'd found a way to get the chip removed and started killing people again. He couldn't explain his memories of a human life. Of Davis Williams' life. Of friends and family he wasn't even sure really existed. How had his heart started beating again?

"Doesn't matter now, does it?" he asked the empty room dully, motioning to the bodies and pile of dust. "Killing people even when I'm not a vampire. Trying not to kill people and still do a bang-up job of it."

Footsteps sounded in his ears but he didn't move. If it was more vampires, let them come. He'd show them what it really meant to be a Master vampire. Now that he had the added bonus of poison blood - he couldn't even begin to explain that one - the odds were heavily in his favor. He kept his eyes on the door, watching disinterestedly as the footsteps came closer and eventually the wooden panels exploded inward. Men in SWAT style uniforms with guns in their hands and stakes on their belts filed into the room. He greeted them with a hollow laugh.

"Bit late for the party."

"We're looking for a vampire." One of the men stepped forward to check both of the bodies. "Long dark hair, blue eyes. Nutty as a fruitcake."

Spike leaned back against the wall, nodding toward the corner. "Pile of dust."

"You killed her?" The man looked up in disbelief.

"Yeah. I killed her." It was hard to say, words sticking in his throat as he tried to force them out. "She turned them. Manager of the place upstairs and," his voice broke. "And my partner."

"We'll take care of the bodies, sir."

Spike watched as the man respectfully closed the sightless eyes of the two dead bodies and nodded his thanks. "FBI?"

"Not exactly." He glanced over his shoulder as the rest of the team moved in and out of the room. "We've been following the vampire, Drusilla, for a few years now. South America, Europe. She finally came back to the states a month ago and we've been trying to track her down."

So that was why the FBI hadn't gotten involved; the world wasn't as clueless as it pretended to be. He almost started laughing again as he remembered the Sunnydale PD saying it wasn't their jurisdiction. Buffy would probably have a fit if she realized they knew all about her and stayed away from suspicious cases on purpose. No more cursing their incompetence and disappearing acts, they were merely making way for the professionals.

"We think she was convinced to come back by the vampire who's trying to gain control of the city. At least the demon underground." The soldier holstered his gun and shifted into a crouch. "It was possible that she could have led us to him."

Spike raised one eyebrow mockingly. "Sorry to fuck up your plans."

"I'm sorry we didn't bag her soon enough to save your partner," he countered sympathetically. "But we will catch the monster who brought her here."

He wanted to get out of there, but his limbs wouldn't move. It wasn't until more men showed up with body bags that he realized he would eventually have to leave, that he couldn't stay in the room and let the world pass by without him. There was a human life waiting for him. A job, an apartment. They would be empty now but he was still expected to show up, to catch murderers and solve crimes. It seemed so petty to track down idiots with guns and knives when there were real monsters roaming the streets in search of blood and life.

"We'll handle everything from here on out, Mister?"

"Williams. Davis Williams, Boston Homicide."

"Can we take you to the hospital? You should get that taken care of."

Spike touched the bloody wound on his neck, drying and congealing into a sticky mess where Drusilla had bitten him. She'd tried to turn him back into a vampire so she could have a family again. His Angelus to her Darla, emulating the twisted family they had before the curse. How thoughtful of her to include Gage, his only human friend in more than a hundred and thirty years. Maybe his entire existence.

"Detective Williams?"

"I'm alright," Spike answered, stiffly getting to his feet. He had a hundred questions waiting to be answered. The one question he did not have was what he was going to do now. He knew that answer with more certainty than he had ever felt in his life. Gage was dead and someone was going to pay for it.

* * *

"Thank you for coming." Spike's smile was strained and he was fighting the British accent with every syllable. Another hand to shake and another stranger to thank for being there, for wandering around the room and looking into a casket to see his dead partner.

"He was a good man," the anonymous lady told him somberly.

"The best," Spike agreed automatically. On to the next idiot with only hollow condolences that meant nothing when compared to the fact that Gage would never open his eyes again.

"He would be proud of you." This face and voice was familiar. Gage's father, Daniel Matthews, took Spike's hand in a bear grip and placed one hand on his shoulder. "He knew what he was signing up for, that it wasn't just a game. You caught the bad guy. I'm sure he's at peace." The man's voice was thick with emotion, swallowing once before heading back into the crowd of people to deal with his own grief and explain to family members.

Explain. As though anyone could explain why Gage was dead.

The official story was that Spike and Gage had found the Dollhouse Killer. Detective Matthews had been lost in the line of duty. Spike had been injured, but had managed to kill the sociopath terrorizing the city. The good people of Boston could sleep soundly at night once more. Except, of course, for the newspaper hero who spent his nights either staring at the bottom of a whiskey bottle and chain smoking or skulking through the shadows and killing every undead monster he could get his hands on.

"Spike." Lieutenant Merritt's deep bass voice shattered his thoughts. A former Seal and bald as a cue ball, the Lieutenant cut an imposing figure of broad shoulders and muscular torso. There were tattoos on his biceps that he kept carefully hidden from anyone beyond the force, relics of his younger, wilder days. Grey eyes were characteristically intense, with a sadness that was unusual. "I thought it was a goose chase or I never would have sent you without back up."

Spike appreciated the statement and only shook his head automatically. "Can't predict those things. Part of the job."

"I should have. That's part of my job."

Their conversation was cut short by more viewers and a couple of reporters who were risking their very lives just by being there. It took every ounce of Spike's control to keep from snapping their necks or at least smashing their cameras and shoving their ballpoints through their eye sockets. Where was a railroad spike when you needed one?

Merritt caught Spike's attention once more. "I want you to take some time off. Talk to Dr. Coleman, do some thinking. Just relax. You put in a request for a week, take three or four. Whatever it takes."

"Sir."

"Just do it, Williams. These things take time and I can't use you if you're off your game. You know that." His voice softened and he smiled sadly. "I don't want to lose both of you."

Spike nodded, working at the lump in his throat as he watched the Lieutenant weave through the crowd.

A vacation would be nice. Drive up and down the Appalachians for real this time, do some camping. Pick up a few souvenirs. Crack a few skulls. Dusting vampires in Boston had given him too high of a profile. If he had any hope of catching the Master pulling the strings, he had to come in through the back door. That meant he'd have to lie low and do more thinking than killing. As smart as the undead bastard was, he would still make mistakes and all Spike had to do was be patient. Waiting wouldn't be easy but it would be worth it.

Gage was worth it.


	39. The Good Life

**The Good Life**

The red eye blinked in the shadows.

Faith hadn't decided if it was hostile or not. Just another monster to slay, a demon with wires and circuits for guts, drinking up electricity like a vampire lapping up blood. Her movements were smooth and even as she unbuckled the shoulder holster, checking the safety on the gun before she placed it carefully in the top drawer of her dresser. Guns were dangerous. The sheath on her leg unhooked and the knife took its place next to the firearm. She undid the latches on her Kevlar vest, folding it as neatly as possible before she tucked it into the drawer. None of the trappings were her idea, but the men in power who pulled her strings were right about the demons finally joining the modern age.

No wonder the New Council had decided to train their Slayers with more advanced weapons. It was a pity they'd lost all but one of the potentials and that one had turned out to be a bigger liability than Faith, something no one had thought possible.

On a good day, she laughed about it and remembered to dig a little whenever she checked in with Iverson. She had to give the man credit, he was willing to admit that they'd fucked up Slayer number three and was doing his best to make sure no one tried to screw any of them over again. Trust in the Watcher's Council was another thing she had never thought she'd live to see.

Her fingers worked the laces of her boots automatically. She watched them, numb and detached from her own movements as she placed the black shoes side by side at the bottom of the bed. The mattress squeaked a mouse-like protest as she stretched out on top of it, staring blankly at the ceiling. White T-shirt, black cargo pants and white socks. Plain, simple. That was the name of the game. Out of habit, she searched out the familiar shapes and faces in the painted plaster above her. She'd named them all, lying in bed for endless nights where sleep seemed determined to make her suffer by being elsewhere. Hair tickled her ear and she brushed it out, fanning it over the pillow. It was getting longer, brushing against her ears, falling in her eyes, and curling down the back of her neck. She twirled one lock absently in her fingers, rubbing the ends against the curve of her ear.

It had been five months and eleven days since the world ended. Her world had ended. Four and a half months since she'd left the Hellmouth behind.

Every day since Sunnydale was the same. Work. Hunt. Kill. Lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.

She didn't bother covering up the scars on her face with make-up; they had diminished to silver threads, barely visible under anything less than noonday sun or a heavy bank of fluorescent lights. Nobody looked good under the hum and flicker of indoor lighting anyway, but that wasn't why she didn't hide them. She wore them like a badge of honor. A reminder. She hid the others, somehow they were more personal; the stripes on her back that Spike had stroked and caressed, sometimes she could still remember the feel of his lips against them. She hid those from her friends and colleagues, even from the man she had taken as a lover. She never brought him home, into her space. She fucked him with the lights out and left him sleeping or pretending to; he never saw her scars.

The first time had been a mistake. Fresh off the plane from the land of sun and cellulite, she'd had too much to drink in a desperate attempt to feel something other than the emptiness and loneliness of her life. He had taken her home, mostly drunk himself, and spent himself inside her while she stared at the cracks in the wall behind the bed. She was gone the second his eyes closed, running away from him and what she'd done. Alcohol burned more coming up than going down. It had taken two hours for her stomach to stop turning inside out, trying to rid herself of the poison and the pain. The next day there had been roses and an apology, asking her to give him another chance. He'd had been sweet and caring, understanding even. Eventually she had convinced herself that it was for the best, that she needed to make the first step of moving on. After all, it was just sex. Nothing more. She warned him not to hold on to her, not to have any illusions of romance or permanency. Just sex.

A soft chime broke her thoughts apart and she rolled onto her side with a sigh, one hand reaching out to stop the red eye from blinking questions into the faint light. The answering machine whirred and hissed as it announced that she had one message.

"Faith. It's Buffy. Dawn loved the birthday present, she'd thank you herself, but she's out living it up with some friends." Pause. "Xander was hoping we could all get together for Christmas this year. It's a couple months off. Two, three, something like that. Think about it. Well…hope you're all right. Bye."

Faith stared at the machine, listening to the tick tock of the wall clock behind her and processing the words slowly. She'd known Dawn would love the vibrant sapphire pashmina as soon as she'd seen it draped over the mannequin in the window. It had been expensive, but Faith had more money than she knew what to do with. Being a hired gun for the government had its perks and the health insurance was head and shoulder above any other offer she could have imagined. Even if there was a bitch of a payoff at the end.

She'd gotten what she wanted. Greta Garbo-ed off into the sunset, traveled across the country where no one could fret or fuss over her. No one trying to make her feel better or make her happy. It was what she wanted, but when the novelty of solitude wore off, she was just alone. She had great clothes that she never wore, a fabulous apartment she hadn't bothered to decorate, a new car gathering dust of the non-undead kind, and enough money to keep the bar stocked. There was even a sort of boyfriend who was attractive, good enough in bed, and liked the fact that she was the Slayer. For a moment, she played with the idea of heading back to Sunnydale for the festivities. Back to the Hellmouth and all its glory, where the Summers girls and the rest of the Scoobies could distract her from the loneliness.

Sitting up suddenly, she headed for the bathroom, stripping off her t-shirt and tossing it on the floor. Sunnydale was one of two places Faith would never go back to. Ever. It held nothing but pain.

Peeling her pants and socks off, she dumped them unceremoniously in front of the sink and reached in to turn on the shower. Boston wasn't bad; part of her had always loved the city. She only ventured into the busy city center when she had to for work, preferring to stay on the fringes where she was close enough to something that could be considered rural. East coasters had an interesting idea of rural, but she didn't argue the finer points of their definitions. As long as she wasn't surrounded by too many curious eyes and faces, she didn't care.

Water shot from the shower head, pelting against the tiles angrily. She kept it on the roughest setting, savoring the sting as the water hit her skin. A little too hard, a little too hot. A little pain was just right. Stepping into the still freezing stream, she shivered involuntarily as she waited for the heat. Eyes closed, she let it pour over her head and face, pulling her hair down around her neck and straightening the waves. She had loved the way his hair curled around her fingers with just a hint of his natural honey color at the base.

Shaking away the images of Spike, she grabbed the bar of soap, working it into a lather with her hands before methodically cleaning away all the sweat and dirt from her body. It had taken months for the feeling to go away; the feeling that she was covered with dust, his dust.

All that was left of him.

Her throat constricted, stomach lurching dangerously as the soap slipped from her fingers. She stumbled from the shower, dripping water over the cold floor, and emptied the roast beef on rye she'd had for dinner into the toilet.

Trembling, she climbed back into the hot water, sliding down the wall to huddle in the corner. She didn't know how long it would take for that reaction to go away. It didn't seem to matter how long it had been. Memories of him dying in front her, turning to dust before her eyes, always made her retch. Everyone else had moved forward, said their peace and gotten on with their lives. She was the only one stuck, trapped, drowning in a past that refused to fade away and determined to haunt her. Some days, she wondered if coming to Boston had made the pain worse, if there was something about the city that never let her forget, never let her move on.

Mostly, she didn't think about it. Not outside the privacy of her apartment where she didn't have to worry about someone finding out. Just one more reason she couldn't go back to Sunnydale. The Scooby Gang would worry about her. She knew they were already concerned. Why else would Buffy or Dawn call every few days and leave a message on the machine? She'd hoped they'd eventually give up when they couldn't reach her but they hadn't. She still planned to send them presents or cards for birthdays and Christmas. Because he would have wanted her to keep in touch.

She remembered the promise, to find someone, which she had grudgingly tried to do even though it went down about as well as two-day-old seafood salad. His words were bitter reminders now. He had already intended to kill himself, had distracted her with the half promise of something she hadn't realized she wanted. Love. She'd been too stunned to react. Not fast enough to stop him. Shivering despite the hot water, she wondered if she would ever feel warm again.

Once the water turned cold again and her teeth were chattering violently, she spun the dial to off and crawled out of the shower, wrapping a thick towel around her body. She couldn't stand up, standing meant that she wouldn't be able to avoid the face in the mirror. Pulling another towel off of the rack, she twisted it around her hair tightly to keep the water from dripping down her back and curled up against the cupboard.

It was a soft room, done in creams and tans with warm birch cupboards and chrome accents. The rug over the latte foam tiles was thick and heavy. She liked to dig her toes into the threads and imagine that she was a little girl again, playing in her mother's make-up case; little Firecracker playing dress-up. The fantasy always ended badly. She broke the lipstick or dumped powder over the counter. Useless little brat.

Shivering subsided to the numbness that reached into her bones without ever touching the emptiness inside. Eyes staying away from the harsh reflection, she got to her feet clumsily and returned to the bedroom. Baggy flannel pants felt hot against her chilled skin and the sweater proudly proclaiming that she loved New York City began to thaw her frozen limbs.

It was all part of the routine. Another night of patrolling behind her and she didn't feel like going out in search of the ever elusive good time. Instead she fished the box of crackers out of the kitchen cupboards and poured herself a glass of white wine, dumping in a handful of ice cubes to take the edge off of the alcohol. She had tried a dark red wine, just once; it tasted like blood. Crackers to settle her stomach, liquor to dull the pain. Flicking on the TV, she curled up on the couch and wrapped the fuzzy fleece blanket she had gotten as a going away present from Xander and Jane around her legs. It was just short of black; Xander had called the color Squid Ink, emblazoned with the X-Files logo and the phrase _Trust No One_ along the bottom. Jane said it reminded her of Faith. _Just remember_, Jane had written on the card, _you don't have to trust to believe_.

Faith hadn't figured out exactly what that meant yet.

Munching on a cracker, she glanced around the apartment. Pictures from Dawn; a painting from Willow's new girlfriend. Buffy had sent an antique dagger just because she thought Faith would like it. Found it on some demons was the explanation. It was etched with geometric designs over the hilt and blade, tucking neatly into a similarly marked sheath. A single azure stone sparkled at the end of the handle. She'd always loved knives. They were elegant, personal, up close and dirty weapons. Couldn't use a blade without getting blood on your hands and metal always washed clean even if your skin didn't.

There was nothing on TV. Reruns of shows she didn't follow or care about. Sitcoms about people who wished their lives weren't normal, who wanted to be special and important. Everyone wanted to be different and unique. To be the only one like them. Of course, Faith reasoned, that was just one more thing that made them all the identical mindless automatons. Change the names and faces, they were all the same show with bad dialogue and contrived plots. Just recycled and brushed off by the networks because they couldn't afford to risk originality. When had she started caring about the television industry? She almost smiled, imaging the teasing Dawn would give her if she knew.

Dawn was planning a backpacking trip across Europe for next year's summer. With the money from the government, she wouldn't have to work part time at the theater unless she wanted the extra cash. She'd told Faith all about it in her last message.

The twinge of guilt was brushed away with wine and a laugh track. That part of her life was over. She couldn't go back to Sunnydale any more than she would return to New Orleans. Verek had rebuilt his bookstore, had even sent her a photograph of the new and improved version with his last letter. She didn't know how he found her, but somehow she knew he would always be able to keep in touch. His letters never mentioned Spike; they were filled with news of New Orleans and descriptions of festivals. She'd sent him a book on lunar cycles that she'd found in a musty little magic shop because it had reminded her of him. It wasn't like she needed the money anyway.

A woman on the screen was selling air fresheners.

What would it be like to only have to worry about air fresheners? Faith bit her lip as she watched the woman's pretend family traipse through the house, moving the odor spewing globes from room to room and smiling brightly as it made their lives better. Ridiculous. But the idea of family caught at her impatiently. Two point five and the white picket fence. Spike had wanted her to have a normal life, have a family and someone to take away the loneliness. There were days when she would have given anything to belong to the family on the screen.

None of it was real.

Burrowing into the corner of the couch, she pulled the blanket tighter over her shoulders and closed her eyes. The wine eased the tension in her muscles, leaving her warm and sleepy. She'd wake up a few hours after dawn to an infomercial and find her way to bed. Then the routine would begin again when the alarm clock screeched its wake up call and she would hit the streets at dusk, running as though the Hellhounds were biting at her heels until everything but the sound of her blood racing faded away. One more tomorrow. Maybe Frye would call, maybe he'd found something about the last person in the world she wanted to see again. Her mother.

She had mentioned it one night, one of the rare nights where she had stayed for a few minutes, sitting in the bed next to him and they had actually talked. Dragging her feet doggedly until the nagging voice in her head was too loud to ignore, she finally asked him to look. If anyone could find her burnout mother, it was Frye. She needed to know even if the idea of seeing the woman again made her furious and terrified at the same time. If the bitch hadn't drunk herself into an early grave, picked up one too many needle marks, or gotten knocked off in the great Slayer eradication, she might be able to tell Faith who her father was. Or at least limit the pool of possibilities to a few hundred instead of the entire male population of the northern hemisphere. Stupid fucked up whore. Hadn't it ever occurred to her that her daughter might care? Might want to know the guy's name even if she didn't. Faith couldn't believe she'd gotten her Slayer genes from her mother, it wasn't possible. So she could be alive somewhere. Unfortunately.

The rancor was hollow now. No matter what her mother said or did, it was child's play compared to four days in a cage. There was nothing else that could hurt Faith more. Spike was already dead. There was nothing left in this world that could top the pain she'd already lived through.

She had a new life now, a new name, a new world to live in. Reborn as Faith Hawkins, she had finally shucked off the heaviest reminder of her past and the only tangible legacy she had gotten from her mother. If the worthless tramp had managed to off herself, Faith could get some flowers and rage to a silent headstone. Part of her hoped that would be the case because she didn't want to face the woman who had hurt her so many years before; she didn't want to pretend that part of her wasn't itching to break her fucking neck. As if her death would make it all better.

_Make it better, mommy._

She hadn't called her mommy since her fifth birthday when her mother had laughed at her tears; had she really thought she deserved presents? Did she really think anyone cared enough to give her anything? Bitch.

Faith retreated deeper into her cocoon, buried in fleece and darkness; she tried to focus on the television and ignore the voices in her head. Too long ago, they didn't matter now. Now that she had a new life. The irritating voice of reason whispered that the drinking, the loneliness, the isolation, was all part of her mother; that Faith was becoming more like her mother with each drink she took. She didn't just shake it away, she raged against the thought and smashed it to pieces, sweeping it away into the back of her mind. She wasn't her mother. There was one important distinction.

When the day came to pay up, she'd take the risks and deal with the chemicals as the government harvested the only part of her they thought was valuable and sent her on her way happily medicated. Sometimes she kicked herself for not telling them to rip them out up front and put her on the hormone therapy without the wait. Funny thing about the government, if they'd just asked nicely instead of sneaking around behind her back, she would have done it willingly. But Iverson had swayed her, convinced her to give it the chance to happen naturally or at least take more time to consider the decision. A baby. A child. They wanted her to be a mother. What they couldn't seem to understand was that she would slit her own throat before she put another innocent child through the hell she had known. There was no way she could be a good mother, not when the only example she had was the perfect illustration of what not to do. She couldn't, she wouldn't. She would never bring a child into this world. Not for anything or anyone.

Lost in thought, she almost missed the ringing of the cell phone. Blinking away the haze, she clawed her way out of the blanket to excavate the coffee table in search of the offending noisemaker. Scowling as she flipped open the case and jabbed at button.

"It's three in the goddamn morning. This had better be good, Frye."

"Yada, yada, princess. We've got a problem with our favorite peroxide vigilante." The perpetually cheerful Frye Birkman was unfazed by her sharp tone.

As central intelligence for Faith's team, he acted as a switchboard and collective brain for the rest of the group. Orders and information had to travel through him, the familiar ringing of the cell phone telling her about some new bad guy trying to get away with murder. Literally. There was never any intimacy in their phone calls, business only. He knew that she would be on his doorstep if and when she wanted sex, then and only then.

"What now?" She shifted the phone to the other ear and returned to her cocoon.

The civilian in question was a detective from Boston PD with a nightlife that consisted mostly of killing demons. He'd proven to be as much of an enigma as the vampire they were looking for, eluding them for nearly three months before they managed to discover who he was. They still had no clue as to what had set him off.

"I think I figured out why he's gone Vampire Hunter. He and his partner were the homicide detectives assigned to the Dollhouse Killer case a few months back and the poor bastards actually found her. We weren't able to get there in time to keep Drusilla from snacking on the partner. His name; Gage Matthews." The sound of shuffling papers came through the phone speaker like static. "One of the field boys fessed up when we got a positive ID. I guess they found him wounded but alive when they got to Drusilla's hideout. Not bad for a flatfoot, he staked her and put a piece of wood through his partner to keep him from coming back."

Faith grimaced, all too familiar with the pain of losing someone. When she had taken the assignment for Boston, it came ready made with a Big Bad. A vampire Master who was both cunning and seemingly invisible, gradually reaching his cold, dead fingers into every pie he could buy, threaten, or just kill off whoever had owned it. The team had been tracking him for nearly a decade, finding façade after façade as they sought to untangle the maze built around the demon tyrant. They had hoped that adding a Slayer, even a former rogue, would bring new life to the search. For the first time, they'd managed to make some headway into the lower levels of the organization.

Faith didn't care about any of that. She'd come for Drusilla, the vampire who had made Spike one night in a dark alley over a hundred years ago. The insane vampire had been on the covert ops hit list for a few years as they'd tracked her across the globe, hoping to finally get someone close enough to take her out. At the time, she'd been perversely disappointed that Drusilla had managed to get herself dusted before they could have some one on one time, although the ending probably would have been the same.

Frye was still talking. "No wonder he's on a crusade. But Haddock broke protocol and filled in a few of the blanks for our Van Helsing; who he was, what he was doing there, who we're after."

"And our boy decided to go after the Master too." With a heavy sigh, she climbed off of the couch and headed into the bedroom to get dressed. Humans got caught up on revenge. The teams saw the same thing time after time, people learning the truth and going off the deep end. It always ended badly, usually the idiots turned up as vampires themselves and came back destroy what little had kept them holding on. "I'm assuming you didn't call just to piss me off."

"Our Mr. Williams has been quiet for a few weeks now. Too quiet. So I ran a full check up on the guy, credit cards, phone calls, the works. Turns out that he's been a very busy little bee. Oh, and get this, he's got a nickname. You're gonna love it. Spike. Isn't that crazy? Bet Drusilla got a kick out of that."

Faith froze in her tracks, nerves turning her muscles to concrete as they rushed to her brain in a flurry of activity. Memories she had carefully stored away so they couldn't hurt came hurdling out of their flimsy lockboxes and stormed through her, cracking thunder and numbing her ears in the pounding of blood. Dumbly, she listened to Frye's voice as he rattled on and on about something. She couldn't understand the words, eclipsed by the barrage of images and sounds she had thought were gone forever; hearing his voice after she'd bled and bruised her way out of the cage for the last time, demanding to know where she was, and the relief she'd felt, the absolute and complete trust that he would find her, save her. After that moment, battered and struggling to survive, she would have done anything for him, anything to stay with him.

No one had been more surprised than Faith when he had looked at her, drowned her again in the depths of blue eyes, and wanted her. Just her. Not just for a roll and tumble, not just for a one night stand. For as long as it lasts, he'd told her. She'd taken him at his word and prayed to Gods she didn't believe in that it would last, that she wouldn't have to lose him.

"Faith? Slayer?" Frye was almost shouting to get her attention.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry." Covering, she scrambled back into her patrolling clothes and yanked on her boots. "What was that last part?"

"Did you hear a single thing I said?"

"Not really, but what's new? I don't hang on your every word."

He sighed and she could hear him tapping something on the counter. "I'm supposed to be your info guy, remember? How can I be the info guy if you don't listen?"

"I'm listening now, spare me the lecture."

"He's got himself an arsenal, best as I can tell. Nothing really stands out if you take it piece by piece, but put together it paints a pretty picture. I'm surprised the guys in Homeland Security haven't red-flagged him as a potential terrorist. The best part is that he managed to dig up the Vietnam vet in Detroit who started selling wooden core bullets on the black market about six months back. Good work too, we've tapped him for a few extra rounds here and there."

"Can you skip to the end?" Faith pinned the phone between her ear and shoulder, fighting with the holster and utility belt that carried extra rounds and a stake for good measure. Wasn't pretty, but it got the job done.

"You can compliment me on my brilliance later. I've had Williams under casual surveillance since he started his Zorro routine, nothing flashy. The guy must have a nose like a bloodhound because he's shaken the best surveillance guys we have, hence the not knowing who he really was for so long. Every Tuesday night he circles the same graveyard, stopping by random tombstones to make it hard to get a bead on who he's there for, kills a few vamps here and there. But he's always there at seven o'clock and stays for an hour. I'm talking clockwork; you could set your VCR by this guy. Tonight, note that it's Tuesday," Frye's voice had taken on that excited trill that usually accompanied some sort of harebrained plan. "Nothing, never showed up. I did a little checking. He was supposed to renew his lease this month, he didn't. His neighbor is the proud owner a new CD collection and the old lady down the hall has a few new plants."

"He's going kamikaze."

"My first guess too. I sent the break and enter twins to check out his apartment and the bedroom walls are covered with maps, photos, city blueprints. He's done his homework and it all adds up to the same city block down on the south side. That and a whole lotta firepower."

"You're kidding?" Faith laughed as she buckled the Kevlar vest around her waist. "He found the bastard. It took you guys three fucking years to even get a clue." They'd only been able to narrow the location of his headquarters to a few blocks and, until the undead parasite turned his back, anything less than a full army wouldn't make a dent in his guards.

"He's a good detective," Frye protested sheepishly. "I've taken the liberty of sending a car over to pick you up. Which should be there about now. Hopefully you'll get there in time for the fireworks."

"You mean in time to pull his ass out of the fire." She grabbed an extra stake from the magazine holder, nothing said Slayer like a sharp piece of wood, as a sharp knock sounded on the front door. Three taps in quick succession, pause, two more; the signal that it was another member of the squad. She snapped the phone shut without bothering to say goodbye and headed out of the apartment. One more life to save. Hopefully she'd be sober by the time she got there.

* * *

"Always guard your perimeter," Spike hissed as the stake pierced through the vampire's back.

The dust had barely settled onto the dirty pavement before he was up the fire escape, headed for the second story windows that weren't as carefully watched and would provide a relatively simple back door into the tunnel entrances. After watching the warehouse for a month, he knew it was a front. Just a cover for the underground network that was spreading through the city like the Black Plague. Insects and rats; bringing death and destruction as they teamed through sewers, tunnels, and safe houses designed to hide the monsters of the city.

Very carefully, he lowered the canvas bag through the already broken window before slipping inside and falling to a crouch, hidden in the darkness by the long black leather coat. For the last three weeks, he'd slipped through the same window and explored the darkness inside as he inched closer to the source of Boston's corruption. He'd been patient this long; he could wait a few more minutes. He waited for each tiny sound, a creak, a groan; the soft echo of voices rising from beneath him as the vampires returned from one of their raids. Were all cities like this? A shadow framework of the demonic underground that functioned, even existed, to make hiding in the darkness easier for the parasites. They were behind everything. Restaurants, nightclubs, book stores. The deeper he looked, the more he saw. Nothing was sacred, no one was safe, and the city was gradually being overtaken as the current vampire Master spread the filth of his influence like a walking, talking Hellmouth.

He shivered a little, staying down in the shadows until he was sure that any sounds he might have made coming through the window would have been dismissed as the wind or rats. The only thing missing was his partner. Teeth ground together as his jaw clenched and he took deep, calming breaths until the rage and grief passed. Losing someone hurt more when there was blood pumping through his veins. He wasn't sure why, he just knew that it did. He knew that Gage would have wanted to be there, would have wanted to be a part of it. Gage would have died for it.

But he wouldn't have died that day if Spike had just warned him. What if, what if.

It was round four thousand and sixty three of the What If Game and Spike was doomed to lose. He had only wanted to protect his partner, to shield him from the evil he knew was out there, and instead he had allowed the lamb to walk into the lion's den.

Drusilla had known, had seen in her brilliant madness that her best chance at getting her Dark Warrior back was to sever his ties to the world as Angelus had done to her. To be a family again, she had whispered before sinking her fangs into his skin. Instinctively, his hand moved to his neck and the scars he knew were there. Why she hadn't been able to drink his blood he would never know; why it had burned her like Holy water would always be a mystery. But in that moment when the memories had come flooding back and he had finally seen them for what they were, they had been the least of his worries. His partner was lying on the concrete in a pool of blood and it was because of him, because of what he had been before Davis Williams had somehow come into existence.

Watching Drusilla die, seeing her pained face crack and break into bits of dust, hadn't hurt until later when he'd had time to think back to his hundred years with her. Driving the stake through Gage's dead heart had hurt more than losing Dru and more than the throbbing wounds in his throat. Gage would have made a wonderful vampire. Even as he'd knelt next to the body, cradling him and trying not to cry like a little boy as his best friend's blood soaked through his jeans, he'd known that Gage would have been one hell of a vampire. Would have loved the night and the freedom, the power; would have laughed the same laugh, smiled the same smile.

The days after were a blur. A funeral. Soft words of sympathy. Shaking hands with Gage's father, tears in both their eyes as they spoke hollow words of comfort; Daniel Matthews assuring Spike that Gage had thought of him as a brother and Spike struggling against his emotions, knowing too well that going home would have been the first thing the vampire Gage would have done. Maybe the second. He would have tried for Spike first; tried to lure his partner into the world of shadows and blood.

Only after that was done, after he took a few weeks off and came back to the force with a new partner. After he passed the evaluations with Dr. Coleman and started into the work again. Only then did he mourn Dru; mourned what she had been, what they had lived and felt for a hundred years. Since she had lifted him from mediocrity with a single, deadly kiss. Still so beautiful even in death. There were patches of time missing from his memory, but he had no desire to fill them. After chaining Buffy Summers to the wall of his crypt, he was sure his time in Sunnydale had gone downhill from there. The six years between were still empty. Maybe the bint, Glory, had killed them all or sent them into an alternate world where he had a heartbeat. Maybe this was all a dream and he was trapped in its web.

Relief came only in the blissful adrenaline rush of fighting back; in killing vampires, demons, and anything he could get his hands on in a futile attempt to make the world a little bit safer for men and women who didn't deserve to die. Maybe he was making up for the hundred years with Dru, the decades of blood and violence that had filled his dreams even before he knew where they had come from. Maybe he was just waiting for something to find a way to beat him, a way to kill him. Something stronger and faster; a fight he couldn't win. Then he wouldn't have to remember the empty eyes staring up at him from his partner's face; the blood and dust on his hands that had meant too much for him to even comprehend.

It had led him here, driven him to seek out the monster and wage his own quiet war against the hydra. Chop off its head and more would grow back but he was determined to keep slicing until there was nothing left in him. Blood spilt, will lost, soul broken. That's when he would stop fighting. When there was nothing left to fight for.

He shook away the harsh memories of the past, of the few short days that had been full of possibilities and excitement before the world had come crashing in. With power came responsibility and Boston didn't have a Slayer. Just Spike. A former vampire who didn't have a fucking clue what he was or the reason why his heart pumped blood and the sun didn't hate him. He told himself that he didn't care. He looked at the face in the mirror and tried to convince the other Spike that it was vengeance, that it was for the sake of violence. Some days it worked. The days when he woke up and stared at his phone, waiting for the six a.m. wake up call. Those were the days that he could believe it was just about revenge. Other days, maybe it was about more than that, maybe it was about doing the right thing and maybe it was about a death wish. It didn't really matter why he fought.

A board groaned under his weight as he crept across the empty room, bag slung over his shoulder. In a few short minutes, he would finally know where the tunnels led and see the face of the vampire who was steadily gaining power. It had to be someone with connections, someone playing at being normal and human; hiding beneath the very noses of those who were looking for him. Piece by piece, he had picked up the scattered clues left behind, trying to figure out how they fit together and where they led him. It was a job made harder by the government's band of Dudley Do-Rights and their not so subtle attempts to follow him.

Spike didn't blame the vampire hunters for arriving too late to save Gage. It was cold comfort to know that the world wasn't hiding beneath their covers; that the men in high places were working against the denizens of the underworld as best they could. The Sunnydale Police Department knew when they weren't supposed to stick their noses in, leaving it to the bouncing blond and her ragtag gang of Scoobies. Easing onto the rickety staircase, he braced both hands against the walls to take some of his weight off of the stairs and wondered why he wasn't still in love with Buffy. What had happened in those empty six years to wipe away the desperate obsession that had tormented his nights? And what happened to the chip? At least the questions kept his mind off of the fact that he was probably committing suicide.

The nameless, faceless vampire, known as only as a Master in the demon circles, was rumored to be heavily guarded. Vampires, maybe a few zombies if the moon was right, probably a few other demons. Movra, Fyarl, the usual lackeys. Luckily, fire didn't care what species the flesh belonged to and his target was particularly flammable. Napalm, gasoline grenades, a few stakes, and a gun with wooden bullets. He had enough chemical cocktails to fill the room with fire and another surprise hidden in the shadows. The bullets confused him. A man in Detroit named Avery had started making them after a Slayer had come to town and cleaned up his section of the ghetto, teaching them how to fight. It couldn't have been Buffy and Faith was either in jail for eternity or dead. If she was dead, then it was a new bird. That made the most sense to Spike. Hanging out in the slums wasn't exactly the style of either Slayer and the man's description had been too tall, too plain. And too vicious.

Pungent cigarette smoke lingered in the stale humidity of night, marking where the vampires had been and hopefully where the entrance to the catacombs was hidden. From the bits and piece of information that he had gleaned from bars and demons, the shipping warehouse led to the heart of the Master's lair and the underground hub where the city of Boston came together in a monumental gathering of tunnels. It was there that the Master oversaw his spreading domain, keeping an iron grip around the throats and hearts of demons and humans alike. Only members of the upper levels had access to central core; both the entrances and routes through the passages were a carefully guarded secret.

All Spike needed was a group of demons to piggy back his way in, preferably one with a human being or two to mask the sound of his heartbeat. Even a demon with one or two hearts would do in a pinch but they were harder to come by. The black bag would come with him; it was meant for the bastard pulling the strings. Glancing around , he was satisfied to see that the explosives he'd placed since he started sneaking into the warehouse were still there, carefully camouflaged and waiting for the signal. If he could flush the monsters through the tunnels into the storage building, one press of a button would send them and the entire structure straight to hell. A cell phone was ready to dial the fire department and give them a head start toward the south district and the inferno he had planned.

A small group of demons entered, mostly Movra bounty hunters with forearm spines flexing as they carried crates through the docking bay. Spike eased forward, frowning with concentration as he tried to see their every movement. One of the creatures moved toward the wall, tough brown skin wrinkling as the muscles beneath coiled and flexed. Claws scraped across the brick until the Movra found what he was looking for and pressed against a single brick with his fist. Beneath them, gears engaged with a shudder and a thump, sliding together in a groan of metal meeting metal. The pile of crates on the platform began to sink, a dark mouth opening around them as the concrete slabs disappeared. Talking back and forth in their gutteral, growling language, the Movras climbed down onto the slabs and disappeared into the floor.

It would be easier than Spike had thought.

He allowed himself a smile before easing back into the shadows to wait for the warehouse traffic to lessen and give him enough time. Just to be sure, he kept both eyes on the brick, memorizing its position so that there would be no hesitation when he finally made his way across the floor. A few more vampires entered, exchanging greetings and snarls as they passed a group coming out of the hidden opening. When a half hour had finally passed without any coming or going, he ventured out of his hiding place.

He dropped down onto the docking bay and found the brick, pressing it firmly and stepping back onto the shifting stone. Transfixed, he watched the concrete slip away around him, lowering him slowly into the depths of the earth and darkness. Dim bulbs shivered, swaying back and forth perilously as they tenuously grasped the ceiling. The catacombs smelled of dirt and time. Ancient, musty, forgotten. Breathing shallowly, he sniffed at the different scents as he climbed off of the slab before it began its return ascent and started down the tunnel leading away from the entrance. Walls of cobbled stone had been patched with brick and concrete, wooden beams reinforced with weathered steel. Further into the tunnel, he picked up the faint scent of blood, unmistakable with its sweetly sour tang that he remembered from more than a century of being a vampire. He remembered the way it had made him feel, the smell and the texture of it on his skin and pouring down his throat; the power, the life, all trapped inside the viscous liquid and the sound it made as it rushed through veins just beneath the skin. Maybe he'd never truly forget. Grimacing at the memories, he kept moving through the barely lit darkness in search of the center. Where there was blood, there were vampires.

When the tunnel didn't branch off as he expected, he paused for a moment to listen to the dead air. Voices. Human. Silently, each footstep carefully positioned, he eased along the wall of the tunnel until he noticed that the shadows had shifted and there was light seeping into them. The corridor veered to the right, cutting off his view of whoever was speaking. More light. Slowly, carefully, he inched toward the corner and peered around the bricks.

Just beyond the turn, the tunnel opened up into a cavernous room lined with arching buttresses and thick, crimson curtains draping over dark stone. Gothic statues of gargoyles and dragons guarded the various tunnel entrances around the room, jeweled eyes sparkling in the light of torches and halogen bulbs. It was an odd mixture of new and old, with thick cables running along the ground to power a central bank of monitors and computer screens. His pulse quickened sharply as he scanned the monitors, breathing a soft sigh of relief as he realized that none of them were surveillance cameras of the tunnels. News stations filled most of the TV screens, creating the background chatter he had heard filtering into the tunnel. Surrounding the pillar of technology were sofas and cushions of thick brocades and velvets, opulent and elegantly Victorian. Occupying half a dozen cushions were females of various species and degrees of undress. Vampires in leather, a few demons he recognized as commonly found in brothels, and a handful of human females sporting angry bite marks and bruises. Interesting. And disgusting.

He unbuckled the duffle bag and began to arm himself methodically. He slipped the Beretta into its holster; the exotic bullets waiting to be tested on a few unlucky vamps. Two stakes slipped into the utility belt around his waist and book ended the business end of a dagger. His favorite weapon was a four-foot pole of solid oak with each end sharpened to a wicked point. Spinning it easily, he admired the weight and balance for a moment before hefting the bag back onto his shoulder, leaving it open so that he could easily reach in and pull out the rest of his surprise package. There were half a dozen entrances into the main room and, in less than a minute, there would only be one.

Fire cocktail in one hand, he rounded the corner and started into the room as though he belonged there, falling into the familiar swagger he had honed to perfection as a vampire. The women lifted off their cushions to gaze at him curiously, probably used to seeing unfamiliar faces.

Spike raised one eyebrow as he tossed the bottle into one of the tunnels, smiling when it exploded in a shower of flame. "Who do you kill for fun around here?"

The vampires were the only ones to attack, shifting into game face as they came off of their plush perches. Behind them, the human women were too dazed or high to do more than stumble away, while the other demon females scattered into the remaining tunnels. Dodging a fist, he caught sight of one of the demons punching a series of numbers into a keypad. Lights began flashing above him, accompanied by the screeching of an alarm echoing through the chamber. Tucking and rolling, he jabbed the pole through the back of one vampire as he tossed another bottle into a tunnel. One of the vamps latched into his arm and bit down on his shoulder, cutting through fabric and skin. He didn't bother to shake her off, reaching back to launch another grenade and twisting around to drive the sharp end of the pole through another unbeating heart.

A sickening gurgling sound followed as the vampire pulled away from him, choking on his blood as it burned down her throat. He watched as the skin on her face began to sizzle and burn, flaking away as she clutched at her neck and stomach. His blood turned her to ash from the inside out, seeping through veins and arteries as his blood torched its way through her body. As she dissolved into a pile of dust, he shook his head with disgust and looked around for something else to kill. Demon whores weren't exactly satisfying.

"Well, that's interesting." The smooth voice was so familiar that Spike didn't even turn around. Until that moment there had still been hope that he was wrong. "How? Drink a bottle of holy water a day?"

"No idea." Spike shrugged and reached into the bag, effectively cutting off another tunnel entrance in a wall of fire. He could hear voices and footsteps pounding through the catacombs as the alarm reached the notorious guard.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Davis."

Steeling himself for the inevitable, Spike pivoted slowly, jaw clenched tightly and face devoid of emotion as he turned to face the Master. "Yeah. I'm afraid it does, sir."

Lieutenant Merritt's face was almost unrecognizable with the ridges marring his forehead and the bridge of his nose, fangs glistening as he smiled. "You knew. I'm impressed."

Spike shrugged. "Knew it had to be someone with connections, who knew how to work around the law."

Merritt left the mouth of the tunnel and crossed the room, lithe as a tiger. "What gave me away? If I may ask."

"The tattoo."

Merritt glanced down at his arm quickly, smiling once more as he traced the symbol inked onto his bicep. "I had wondered if anyone would recognize it. A hundred years have passed since anyone knew this mark. The old ways are lost in myth and obscurity."

"Did some time in Sunnydale with the Annoying One. Big on ceremony and symbols." Spike changed his grip on the pole and wondered why Merritt hadn't bothered to arm himself. "'Sides, it's something I should know. Being from the line of Aurelius myself." There was a flash of confusion in the intense gray eyes before they flicked toward the tunnels where several dozen vampires and demons began to pour out of the darkness, skirting the edge of the flames that were beginning to spread into the room and lick at the tapestries.

"How do you figure that?" Merritt raised a hand to keep his guard back, signaling that this was his business to take care of.

"I was never big on the whole who sired who bullshit." Spike eased the duffel bag onto the ground and cracked his neck as he tightened fingers around the pole. "Got a bit of the family history from Darla before Angelus got himself all souled and useless. All I cared was that Dru thought it was grand." Taking advantage of Merritt's increasing confusion, Spike grinned. "Want to see another neat trick?" A single inhuman leap carried him over a row of cushions to the dais in the center of the room, landing effortlessly on the platform where Merritt was standing.

"What are you?" Merritt frowned, taking a wary step sideways.

"Don't know myself." Spike spun the pole lazily over his left hand. "Couldn't figure out how Dru could do it. Get me and Gage at the same time. Never much for that kind of thing, my Dru. But if she knew we were coming, if she had help." He shoved a sofa out of the way, widening his circle as he moved around Merritt. He paused for a second, his jaw tensing again at the memory. "At the funeral, you said you didn't want to lose both of us. You sent us there to die."

"I sent you there to live forever." Merritt began to match Spike's spiraling steps. He motioned to his guard, catching the handle of a sword easily as it was thrown to him. "To be part of this. Part of what I'm doing here."

"Why Dru?"

"She came to me. Crazy bitch told me I had her dark warrior." The sword flashed in the firelight. "A lot of nonsense about moons and stars and finding you before you destroyed the world. I gave my blessing, suggested she take you both. I'd been meaning to bring you and Gage over at some point. By the way, since you seem to know her, was she always so fucked in the head?"

Anger drove Spike to the first attack, swinging the pole in a slicing arc that Merritt dodged. He came back with thrust of his sword and cut into the already bloody flesh where the female vamp had bitten. Catching the flat side of the blade, Spike shoved it out of the way and planted his fist firmly in Merritt's face, crunching bone and spraying blood over his hand. They backed away, eying each other speculatively and circling like wolves anticipating for a moment of weakness.

"If what you say is true, Dru was your sire, how'd you get the heartbeat?" Merritt feinted left, using the split second it took Spike to change directions to deliver a sharp kick to the stomach.

"No idea," Spike hissed through clenched teeth.

Another feint. He grabbed onto the vampire's wrist and twisted him around, swiping at the back of his knees with the pole. Merritt caught hold of Spike's shirt as he fell forward, sending them both tumbling off of the platform. Landing within arm's reach of his duffel bag, Spike reached in and pulled out a handful of bottles. Shouted warnings were too late as glass shattered against the high walls and fire poured down onto the guards below. He rolled away from Merritt's sword, kicking the blade when it stuck in the floor and breaking it off at the hilt. He kept sliding, scrambling, slipping out of the way as he continued to lob grenades into all but one of the tunnels. After each exit but one was ablaze, he hurled the rest into the milling chaos of the demon guards as they fought to put out the fires.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Merritt landed on Spike's back with a bone shattering jolt, wrapping a muscled arm around his neck and cutting off his air.

Spike choked, twisting in the hold as he reached down to his belt. Fingers closed around the dagger, swinging back and up to plunge the blade into the soft skin beneath the ribs. The pressure on his throat lessened enough for him to spin around and grab hold of Merritt, pounding his fist into the vampire's face. They locked together in a terrifying fury of fists and fangs, crashing across the floor, bumping into burning demons and furniture. The central tower of monitors teetered dangerously as Spike tossed Merritt into one of the supports, shuddering again when he charged. It was getting harder to breathe as the air filled with smoke and heat, burning through Spike's lungs when he took another blow to the stomach, crashing backward into the stone wall.

"Brilliant plan, Davis." Merritt spat blood, wiping at his broken nose gingerly. "You're the one who needs air. How exactly did you plan on getting out of here?" The vampire yanked one of the steel rods from the tower, ignoring the crash behind him as it came tumbling down in a mass of glass and sizzling circuitry.

Spike winced as the rod connected with his ribs. "Didn't."

"How noble," Merritt sneered, missing Spike by a fraction of an inch when he tried to plunge the rod into his chest. "How human. Pathetic."

"Beats what you are. Believe me, I know."

"Maybe I'll keep you around. Cut you open and figure out what kind of freak you are. Then again, killing you would make me feel better."

"Like to see you try." Spike spun away from the metal, catching it firmly with one hand and ramming it back. It sunk into Merritt's abdomen, spilling blood onto the concrete and Spike.

Snarling, Merritt yanked the rod out of his flesh and dove for Spike. "Now I'm angry."

With a grunt, Spike untangled himself from the hands clawing at him and struggled to his feet. The room was almost completely engulfed in flames and he could see demons scurrying into the remaining unblocked tunnel toward the warehouse. He felt under his shirt for the detonator strapped to his chest, mentally calculating how long it would take for the majority of them to make the trip and climb out of the catacombs. A shout carried over the noise and demons flooded back into the chamber, trying desperately to avoid the fire. Behind them was a group of men in familiar military gear with rifles and stakes, herding the monsters toward the flames.

Turning with a grin, Spike caught Merritt's eyes. "Cavalry's here."

Merritt glanced between the group of soldiers and the fire, weighing the odds. Finally, he turned back to Spike with a furious glare. "Quite a mess you've made. It's a pity you won't be able to see the end of it."

Spike tossed his weapons aside and faced Merritt squarely. "Come on then."

The fight resumed with a flurry of punches and kicks, a pair of Goliaths slamming into each other as they each tried to stay out of the fire and away from the wicked edges of the central control tower that was now lying in a pile of sparking wires and glass shards. Pain stopped registering; their concentration only on the rhythm and movement of their battle. Raging together, struggling for dominance, they crashed through the burnt rubble. Spike choked in the smoky air, gasping for breath and doggedly refusing to let go of his opponent.

Blinded, he didn't see the shard of metal in Merritt's hand until it was arcing down through the thick air and singing pain through his nerves as it buried itself in his chest a few millimeters from his heart. The triumphant look in Merritt's eyes triggered something in Spike, flooding his veins with adrenaline. Clenching his fist tightly, he pulled back his arm and let instinct take over. Bones cracked as his fist met fabric and skin, snapping through ribs and sinking into the cold, dead flesh. Jagged edges cut and bit at his wrist as he opened his hand and wrapped his fingers around the heart inside. Blood sprayed over both of them when he ripped the lifeless organ from Merritt's chest, clutching it tightly as it began to dissolve.

"What the…?" Merritt's look of shock disappeared into a cloud of dust.

"For Gage," Spike whispered, still holding tightly onto a fistful of dirt.

His head was swimming with smoke and fire, blood seeping into his eyes. Survival instinct prodded him on, reaching for the metal spear and pulling it carefully out of bruised flesh. Fighting against the blackness threatening to swallow him whole, he clamped one hand against the wound and sunk to his knees, away from the smoke and heat.

"Spike! Spike!" A woman's voice cut through the roaring in his ears and he looked up, blinking away smoke and ash.

Numb, he got an image of dark hair and pale skin moving through the flames. A stake in her hand. A Slayer.

Collapsing on his side, tears trying to wash away the burning in his eyes, he struggled toward the sound of her voice. Closer. There were scars criss-crossing her beautiful face. Familiar. Where had he seen her? It came back like a bolt of lightning as she reached for him, scars circling her wrists like bracelets where she had been tied and bound. New Orleans, the chip. A soul.

"Faith?" he whispered.

* * *

The weight that had been dragging Faith's soul down into hell disappeared the moment she saw the first kick. The way he spun and bounced on his toes between jabs, the way he danced. There was no doubt, no questioning, no wondering how or why. She just knew. Watching him fight washed away the pain and the emptiness, charging her like no rush she'd ever felt as she pushed her way through the smoking mass of demons. There were more coming, beating out the fires in the tunnels as they looked for a way to get into the room and join the fight. The humans were outnumbered and only the fire was holding the demons at bay, keeping the odds from turning against them.

In the middle of it all was the most amazing thing she had seen in her life. Spike. Blond, draped with leather, and thoroughly pissing someone off. Some things never changed. It wasn't until she saw the metal pierce his chest that she began to worry, began to fight harder than she had ever fought before. To get to him, to save him. Smoke burning her eyes and lungs; she clambered through the rubble, eyes widening as she watched him rip the vampire's heart out with his bare hand and stumbling as she watched him collapse.

"Spike! Spike!" He turned toward her, blue eyes blinking rapidly through the smoke. Faith slid to the floor beside him.

"Faith?"

She felt as though her heart was going to break again as she pulled him into her arms. "Stay with me, baby, stay with me." Stumbling against his weight, she draped his arms around her shoulders and got to her feet. His head lolled against her neck, the wound on his chest bleeding against her as she navigated the wreckage. "Come on, Spike. You can't give up now. I've got you, I've got you." Frantic to get him away from the inferno before the next wave of demons came, she didn't notice the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Faith!" One of the twins, Randy, waved her toward them. "We've got to get out of here!"

"Help me with him!" Faith took a deep, shaky breath as Randy took part of Spike's weight.

"Let's go." Randy shouted over his shoulder as they plunged into the tunnel, the rest of the team falling in behind them. "Move, people. Move!" There was nothing but the sound of footfall and heavy breathing as they hurried through the darkness, waiting for the inevitable sounds behind them when the demons finally found a way to pursue them.

Faith was shaking with fear, one hand soaked in Spike's blood as she tried to stop the flow. "Spike, please. Don't leave me, don't leave me. Hang on." She was begging, terrified that she had found him too late. Once again, not fast enough to save him.

The gears turned too slowly, inching the platform back up into the warehouse above them. Shouting drifted through the tunnel and the team members exchanging nervous looks, all of them injured and suffering from the smoke they had inhaled. At the top, they staggered away from the platform toward the fresh air beckoning outside.

His voice was so soft that Faith almost missed it, until she saw his lips move. "Wired."

"What?" She eased him onto a crate just outside the docking bay. "Spike? Don't try to talk, just be still."

"It's…wired." Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, eyes still closed as he reached slowly to pull the hem of his shirt up. A cell phone and a small round case were strapped to his chest.

Faith gently unwrapped the cell phone, turning the black case over in her hands. It flipped open, revealing a single red button inside. Glancing quickly at the warehouse, she pulled Spike's weight back onto her shoulders. "Get everyone out of the building. It's wired to blow." She and Randy scrambled to get Spike's limp body away from the building as the rest of the team filed out. She called Frye while Randy dialed 911 and gave him a heads up.

"I'm going to get him out of here. Med team's on its way." Faith handed the detonator to Randy. "Wait till you see the whites of their eyes and then blow the bastards to hell."

"Will do." Randy left her with a salute and started to round up the team.

She laid Spike into the back seat of one of the team cars and dug the first aid kit out from under the seat. Her fingers found a pulse in his wrist, slow and steady. She stripped away the jacket and tore his t-shirt down the center, quickly bandaging the wound in his chest and a few more on his shoulders and arms. Bite marks, knife cuts. Tears welled up in her eyes again as she covered him gently with a blanket and climbed into the front seat.

The engine roared to life, tires screeching as she spun into the street and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Two blocks later, she heard the deep thrum of the explosion and watched the sky light up in her rearview mirror. Speeding through the streets, she swerved through traffic recklessly and ignored the red lights completely. Her destination, a tall building of dark umber brick almost as old as the city itself, rose up on the right side of the street. Braking hard, she swung the car into the dark mouth of the underground parking and sped past the booth at the front. Frye was waiting at the other end of the Headquarters parking lot with half a dozen doctors and a gurney. Yanking the wheel to the left, the car slid to a halt a few feet away and she bolted out of the door.

"Backseat," she instructed sharply. She opened the door before making way for the doctors.

Blocked off from him by a wall of white coats, she felt too far away, too distant. She ignored Frye's attempt to comfort her and trailed after them, watching Spike's pale face under the lights as they wheeled him into the building and the specialized hospital hidden underground. He would get the best possible care, she knew that.

"You know we're not supposed to treat civilians."

"If he dies." Faith turned away from him. "I'm out. Deal's off."

Frye was watching her curiously. "So much for not caring about some dumbass detective."

"Don't." She got as far as the doctors would allow before she was asked to wait outside. Fidgeting nervously, she rubbed at the soot stains on her skin and sat down to wait in the sterile waiting room. A few minutes later, Frye settled down in the chair next to her.

"Everyone got out of the warehouse," Frye commented absently. "Blew up half a city block and probably more than half of the vampires in this city. Overall, a success."

"Yeah."

"No thanks to us."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Do I ever?" Faith stared down at her hands, picking at the drying blood with fascinated horror.

"I'll get you something to clean that up." She felt him move away, heard the chair creak and his footsteps fade into the silence.

Her fingers were shaking as reality finally began to sink in. Heartbeat. She had felt for a pulse and she had found one. Spike had a heartbeat. She'd seen his chest rise and fall as he breathed. Spike was alive. The man lying on the gurney, whose blood had turned her skin the color of rust, was alive. Had said her name with a mixture of shock and wonder, had looked at her with those same blue eyes. Had put his fist through a vampire's chest. She didn't know how any of it was even possible. Fumbling through her pockets, she dug out her cell phone and punched in the string of numbers she had tried so hard to forget. One ring, two, three, four, five. Six rings, she almost gave up. Seven. One more and she'd hang up.

"Hello?" Buffy sounded half asleep.

"Hey, B."

"Faith? Are you all right?"

Faith looked down at her hands and clothes. "Yeah…just…rough night."

"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"No." Hot tears filled her eyes and she brushed them away.

"Just wanted to hear a sympathetic voice?"

"Maybe." There was an unmistakable quiver in her voice now as the dam broke and tears streamed down her face. "There was this guy. Police. Drusilla killed his partner and he's been dusting all these vampires for months. And tonight," her voice broke.

"Go on," Buffy prompted gently.

"He found this one vampire. Total bad-ass. We've been looking for him too." Sniffing, she took the damp towel Frye offered when he returned and wiped at her face. "I carried him out of the building. Fire everywhere, shit falling from the ceiling, demons. So much blood, B, so much goddamn blood."

"How is he?"

"I don't know. I'm…I'm waiting."

"I know how that feels."

"Yeah. Figured you did." Faith wiped her nose on the towel and shifted the phone to her left hand, allowing Frye to wash away the blood and ash from her right hand.

"It'll be alright, Faith. I promise."

"How…how do you do it?"

"Save people?"

Faith closed her eyes tightly. "Watch people die."

"If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't fight death. It comes and there's nothing, no stake, no weapon, can ever stop it. And it rips you up into little pieces, makes you wonder if you'll ever be whole again. We're Slayers, we think everything can be fought and defeated. Strategy, battle plans, keep everyone alive. But we can't."

"I don't know…if he dies." She couldn't bring herself to tell Buffy it was Spike, couldn't handle the kind of fear that would come if she actually said it out loud.

"It will be okay if he dies, Faith." Pause. "Maybe he'll find some peace."

"Maybe."

"I know you did everything you could."

Faith felt a wave of guilt wash over her. She hadn't even been completely sober when she had charged into the burning catacombs; hadn't shaken off the alcohol until the fight was well under way. What if it had slowed her reflexes just enough? Just enough to mean that she hadn't been able to reach him in time. Could she have stopped the vampire from plunging the jagged piece of metal into his chest if she'd been sober? Her shoulders began to shake as she dissolved into sobs. She was still fucking everything up. Still making mistakes that cost lives, mistakes that others paid for in blood and pain.

"Miss Hawkins?" The doctor touched her shoulder gently and Faith jumped, startled.

"B, doc's here, gotta go."

"Call me!"

The phone snapped shut and Faith stuffed it back into her pocket self-consciously, brushing tears out of her eyes. "Is he okay? He's still alive, right?"

Nodding firmly, the doctor smiled. "It missed his heart and all the major arteries. We've given him a transfusion to replace the blood he lost and Dr. Norris is patching him up. He'll be fine."

"Fine," she echoed with disbelief, her muscles turning to jello as she sunk back into the chair.

"Do you want me to take you home?" Frye touched her hand gently.

"No. No. I want to stay." Faith bit her lip nervously. "When he wakes up, I want to be here."

"At least let me take you home to get cleaned up. I promise I'll bring you right back."

She hesitated for a few moments before looking down at her blackened clothing, stiff with his blood. Spike wouldn't want to wake up to that. He'd wonder if she was hurt and she shouldn't worry him. At least not until he was better. She nodded quickly and let Frye lead the way back through the corridors to the parking lot. They passed other members of the team as they filtered in, oxygen masks covering their faces and most of them sporting bandages. In good spirits, Randy and his brother Jake, were regaling the group with descriptions of the explosion and the faces of the demons who had gone up with the warehouse in a ball of fire. Impatiently, she waited for Frye to finish talking to them, anxious to get back to Spike. Her Spike.

Randy removed his mask long enough to ask a question. "You alright, Slay-gal?"

Faith felt a smile spread across her face. "Never been better."


	40. Who Are You?

**Who Are You?**

Beyond the pain radiating throughout his body and the cottony taste of antibiotics at the back of his throat, Spike knew there was a very good reason that he should be waking up; she had dark brown hair, chocolate eyes, and she smelled of magnolias. Beneath the pain, he could feel his wounds healing. Swelling faded and bones knit. He could feel the tug of surgical tape and stitches in his skin where he had been bandaged and sewn up. Floating just on the edge of consciousness, he let the parade of memories march through his drug addled brain. He would have laughed if his ribs hadn't felt as though they were on fire every time he inhaled. At least he hadn't ended his career as a vampire by chaining Buffy to a wall. That was too pathetic even for a depraved, blood-sucking fiend.

And the world hadn't ended.

Maybe he'd actually done something right when he dusted himself in that basement with Faith. Now that he could remember the look of pain on her face as he died, he was anxious to see her again; to touch her, feel the silk of her skin and the heat of her body. From the vague memories of the fire, he thought he remembered dark circles under her eyes and the impression that she had lost weight. Of course, he'd been halfway to Neverland at the time and wasn't sure if he could trust his memory at all.

Light began to filter through the darkness, awakening the tired nerves in his eyes and brain. His ears began to pick up the sounds of machines and the humming of light bulbs. Just a few minutes more, he told his aching muscles. Just a few more minutes of quiet and rest. Then he realized that he could feel her; her presence, her power, the strength that emanated from every inch of her body was washing over him in waves.

"Can I get you anything?" It was a man's voice. Unfamiliar and softly concerned.

"I'm good. Thanks." Faith's voice was strained and awkward, as though she was uncomfortable answering the question.

"I'll be back in an hour or so."

"I'm fine…you don't need to."

"I'll bring back some Chinese or something. What sounds good?" the man insisted. "And I want you to stay with me tonight."

"Frye, please." She sounded so tired that Spike wanted to reach out for her.

"And I mean the whole night, not just long enough to get your clothes back on."

The rest of the conversation faded into whispers as Spike realized that Faith was talking to her lover. She had a lover. Of course, she did. He'd told her to find someone. Idiot that he was. He couldn't have known that he would end up back in her world somehow.

Torn between two worlds, he teetered between sleep and wakefulness. Not wanting to face the reality sitting beside his bed and not wanting to drift back into the comforting cocoon of sleep either. What was he supposed to say to her? In a way, he was touched that she'd listened to him and moved on with her life instead of falling apart over his death, the way he had fallen apart after Buffy died. That was a memory he would have been glad to have never gotten back. One of many.

"Spike?" Hope lifted the tone of her voice several notes.

A dry throat took care of any questions about what he would say first, rendering him unable to do anything but croak as he squinted against the bright lights and struggled to move his limbs.

"Don't move." Her warm hands fluttered over his chest and shoulders. "Do you need anything? Water?"

He nodded slowly and let her help him into an almost sitting position, enough that he didn't have to crane his neck to look at her. The hospital gown was puffy with the bandages underneath, wounds itching as they healed beneath layers of surgical bandages. Her hands were shaking as she filled a glass of water, coming back to his side and helping him drink carefully.

"Easy…easy." That voice could drive a man insane.

Throat soothed and the sterile taste gone from his mouth, he took the glass from her trembling hands and held onto it tightly. She had lost weight; her clothes hung too loosely and her collar bones more pronounced than he remembered. The dark circles under her eyes were also new, accompanied by the haunted look of someone with too many sleepless nights behind them. The scars were familiar, each one just where he had left it. Unconsciously, he reached out to trail his fingers over the circlets around her wrists, noticing the tremor that passed through her as he touched her.

It was different. Touching her had always been heady and erotic, but this was a charge that he couldn't explain. A jolt of electricity and energy through his hand, up his arm, and spreading through his chest like fire. She was a Slayer; he could feel that in a way he never had before. Was it anything like what Buffy had referred to as her 'vampire sense'? he wondered.

She took his hands gently, mindful of the broken fingers. "Hey."

"Hey." Great first words there. Still pathetic after all these years. "Faith…I…you…how are you?"

"Good."

"Good."

"Yeah." Hesitant, she pulled her fingers away and returned to the chair, sitting on the edge like a child waiting to be set loose for recess.

"Probably have a lot of questions." Spike rested back against the bed.

"You could say that."

"I don't have any answers."

A dozen expressions crossed her face, almost piling on top of each other as she struggled with her emotions. "You don't know how you got here? How you're..." She nodded toward his chest.

"Not a clue."

"Research then. Frye's a whiz at that kind of thing. He's like a male Willow only taller and…not gay." She stumbled over the last part and looked down at her hands for a moment. "But you are Spike, right?"

"One and only." He tried to give her a reassuring smile. "Go ahead and quiz me if you want."

"Buffy Summers."

"Slayer. Blond, holier than thou attitude. Or as you so eloquently put it while you were joyriding, a stuck up tight-ass with no sense of fun."

"Xander?"

"Bloody awful taste in women."

"Angel?"

"Now you're just being cruel. No need to torture me." For a moment, the tension faded and she smiled brightly at him. The same smile he'd seen that night in Sunnydale when he'd realized that he wanted her, had taken her into his arms and let her heat burn everything else away. After a moment, she seemed to remember as well and the smile faltered as her cheeks colored, eyes returning to her lap.

"Your accent's…different."

"Yeah, s'pose it's all those memories of growing up in the states." Shifting carefully, he avoided the curious look for a second before giving her a faint shrug. "Whole life time of memories that aren't real. Of running around in the sun, college, friends. Least I know how the Bit feels with all those monk memories she's got."

"So you have a life here. With family and everything?"

"Not anymore." He closed his eyes against the fake pain of his parents' deaths and the very real pain of Gage's death. At least he had known Gage. Some of those memories were real.

"What happened?"

"The usual. Dad had a heart attack and Mum got cancer." Pausing for a moment, he frowned and opened his eyes. "Dru got Gage and he was all I had left. Of that life, anyway."

"Oh." She sounded lost.

"Faith, luv." It was a strain to use the term of endearment. "You don't have to stay here. And you could probably use a rest yourself."

Her brow furrowed. "You're sure you're all right? You've been out for about a day."

"Right as rain. Really. I'm sure they'll take good care of me and I'll be out making a nuisance of myself in no time." He really wanted her to leave before her boyfriend came back. He wasn't sure if he could handle the little things, the touches and glances that would give away the fact that they were lovers. The intimacy that he no longer had with her.

"I can stay, it's no problem." Her hands were tight fists in her lap, teeth showing as she gnawed on her lower lip. "But if you want me to leave."

"Yeah. Don't want to keep you."

Turning his face away from her, he closed his eyes against the sound her standing up and moving toward the door. His own heartbeat was loud in the silence as he waited for the door to open and close. When it didn't happen after nearly fifty beats, he opened his eyes again. Faith was standing at the bottom of the bed glaring at him. Warily, he straightened further despite the tugging of his wounds. "What is it, Slayer?"

"You son of a bitch," she ground out angrily.

"Hey!" Spike held up a hand, moving the glass of water to the table beside the bed. "I've only been awake for five minutes. What the bloody hell have I done now?"

"You're fucking lying to me." Scowling, she wrenched her jacket off of her shoulders and tossed it into the chair.

"Don't know what you're talking about." He raised one eyebrow as she undid the laces of her boots and tossed them into the chair as well. "And what the hell are you doing?"

Ignoring his question, she climbed onto the bed and straddled his legs, grabbing hold of both wrists tightly enough to leave bruises on already injured skin. She was careful, despite her anger, to keep her weight off of his wounds. "You left me. You fucking left me in that fucking basement. Left me sitting there with your goddamn dust all over me."

"Faith." He didn't want to hear how badly he'd hurt her. Leaving her, causing her pain, felt as good as swallowing a spoonful of tacks even though he knew that there hadn't been a choice.

"Shut up." Furious, she tightened her grip on his fingers for emphasis. He could tell she wanted to hit him, a bare sliver of restraint away from sending him back into unconsciousness. "I had to go back to Sunnyhell and get fawned over by the bloody Scoobies. And you? You were here, in Boston, playing detective with your new friends and your family. You didn't even…you…and you told me to find someone, so I did. I haven't slept, I haven't eaten. Just sat on that chair waiting for you to fucking wake up and now you're telling me to leave." Tears slipped down her cheeks as her anger faded into pain. "Just tell me why, just tell me."

"Come again?" Spike stared at her, bewildered.

Her shoulders slumped dejectedly. "Did you even look for me at all?"

Speechless, he pulled her as tightly against his chest as the thick bandages would allow, filling his lungs with the familiar scent of her skin and lotion. Rubbing her back gently, he waited until her tears had subsided before straightening her up again and catching her eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to tell you. I'm sorry."

"I just don't understand how you could be here, alive, and not even call. Not even pick up the fucking telephone."

"I didn't remember." Spike cradled her face in his hands, brushing at the streaks left behind by the tears. "I swear I didn't remember anything at all until I saw you. Faith, if I'd known, if I'd had any idea. You know I would have found you."

"Amnesia? That's convenient." She sniffed quietly, sarcastic and hopeful at the same time.

Slowly, Spike managed to gather his thoughts together. "I think it was part of the deal. Heartbeat, life. Don't think I was meant to remember anything at all. Probably wouldn't have if I'd never run into you."

"Guess I have to believe you."

"Don't have to. Go ahead and hate me, luv. For being the bloody pillock I am." He kissed her forehead gently before pulling her back into his arms, basking in the heat of her body and the way it curved against him perfectly. "Can't say I'm not glad that you missed me."

Her voice was soft, dangerously so, and her face turned away so that he couldn't see her expression. "When you died, you took me with you. There was nothing left. Nothing."

That emptiness was something he knew agonizingly well. He'd felt it when he had seen Buffy's body lying in the rubble, incredulous and in denial of what was before him. He'd felt it again when his hands touched Gage's dead skin and dull, sandy hair that had gleamed in the sunlight just a hour before; watching as meaning and life were stripped away, wondering if he'd ever find something to fill the crater inside his soul, to ease the constant ache gnawing away at his emotions. The pain of loss ignored all barriers, striking down its victims with impunity and not caring who they were, what they did for a living, or if they deserved that kind of pain. He wanted to tell her that he would never leave her again, never let her go, but he wasn't sure of his place with her. She had taken him at his word and moved on. Where did that leave him?

"He's good to you, right? This bloke you've found."

"Spike." She pushed away quickly, her eyes shining as she looked up at him.

"S'alright, luv. I wanted you to find someone."

"He's not someone…he's just…someone." Burying her face against his chest, she clung to him like a lifeline. "He's not what I want."

"Good." He smiled when she blinked up in surprise. "Cause I was gonna have a helluva time not killing him."

* * *

It was such a foreign sound that Frye stopped outside the door to listen. Puzzled, he leaned to the side and glanced through the blinds of the hospital room to see what was going on inside. Faith was lying in the hospital bed with her head on the detective's shoulder and one arm wrapped around his waist. Laughing. She was laughing. He'd never heard her laugh. She looked like a completely different person. Younger, happier. Vulnerable.

The familiarity between them hit Frye like a sledgehammer. He watched the man nuzzle her hair softly, fingers stroking her arm with a gentleness that she had never allowed. She curled against him with complete trust and openness. With affection. They fit together like puzzle pieces, locking tightly into a whole. Fingers tangled together and their voices were intimately low as they talked. As he made her laugh. They looked like old friends catching up after years of being apart; more than old friends.

Minutes ticked by slowly as he watched the scene through the blinds; watched her cuddle against him, watched her lips brush against the bandaged knuckles of the cop's hand. His teeth grinding together, he tried to think of an explanation. He had to be someone she knew from when she was in Boston before, maybe an ex-boyfriend even. She probably hadn't known it was him until that night. It would explain why she'd been so worried, so adamant about being there when he woke up.

He'd known it wouldn't last.

Every time he'd put his arms around her and kissed her, he'd known that she wasn't thinking about him. That in her mind, there was another man he could never compete with. But he'd hoped the bastard who had broken her heart was gone forever. Even if he did come back, Frye had believed that she would know better than to trust him again. Maybe not. Davis Williams was not a stranger to Faith and he couldn't think of another explanation for the closeness between them.

Wincing, he exhaled painfully as he watched their lips meet, but he couldn't look away.

When he finally managed to turn away, his breathing was ragged and pained. He left the overnight bag he'd taken from her apartment outside the door. She had never been his and she never would be. She would never love him.

Faith Hawkins was already in love.

* * *

"You're sure this came from Detective Williams?" Benjamin Moore looked up from his computer screen as the door to the lab swung shut. His desk was neatly organized into piles, drawers, and file folders. Around him was the heart of the Boston teams research facilities, equipped with all the latest technology to study demons. What made them tick and preferably what made them stop ticking.

Frye nodded, crossing his arms as he pulled up a chair. "Faith had his blood all over her. I helped her clean up."

"And hijacked a sample. You have a devious mind, Birkman."

"Just tell me what he is, Ben."

"Honest answer? No fucking clue."

"But he's not human."

"Oh, he's definitely not human." Ben clicked through a series of folders, navigating through files to pull up a series of charts and images. "He's got the basics of human blood. Type, the general structure, and ratios are all the same. But when you go deeper, crack open the DNA and take a peek. Worlds of difference."

Frye frowned at the screen. "And these differences, what could they do?"

"They could do just about anything really. Most of them are where normal humans have sets of inactive genes. The genes that evolution turned off centuries ago. His are not only active, they're entirely different base pairs." Ben was typing a series of numbers into the computer. "I got a looksie at the medical files for your mystery man and I think I can give you an idea of what they might be doing. The guy bounced back like the Energizer Bunny when he should have bought the farm. He was already healing when the doctors got to him. Norris didn't even want to put stitches in because, and this is a direct quote, he could watch the tissue healing. Real time. You read any comic books as a kid, Frye?"

"A few."

"Well, our Mr. Williams would make Stan Lee proud."

"Who?"

"X-Men?" With a long sigh, Ben hit the enter button and sent the electronic brain away to think. "I'm surprised the doctors didn't stow him away in an Erlenmeyer somewhere. Probably didn't want to piss the Slayer off and find themselves at the wrong end of a pointy weapon."

"Randy saw him put his fist through a vampire's chest and rip the heart right out."

"If you believe Randy."

"I do." He tapped his pencil on the counter as he considered the possibilities. "Anything else?"

"There is one more thing." Ben glanced around the lab a little nervously. "We're not supposed to be messing with this stuff. After the shit that went down in Sunnydale, if you even look at one of the Slayers the wrong way you're up for a court martial."

"But?"

"I pulled a sample of Faith's blood and ran it against Davis'."

"And?"

Ben motioned to another set of diagrams, dragging the two imaged double helixes side by side with a quick swipe of his mouse. "General Crazy Ass isolated which genes are the Slayer genes, they're highlighted in yellow here. It's a specific set that isn't seen in regular people like you and me and they only become active when the girl is called. No idea on how that works. Now look at Davis'."

To Frye, it was a colorful patchwork of fancy blocks and lines. "What am I seeing here?"

"The same goddamn genes."

"So he's a Slayer? A male Slayer?"

Ben grinned. "Safe to say he can do anything a Slayer can plus a bit more on the side."

Frye looked back and forth between the two sets of pictures for a few moments before he reached down for his backpack. "I want to show you something. It'll probably just bring up more questions." Pulling a folder out of the pack, he opened it carefully and pulled out several glossy eight by tens. The familiar face of Davis Williams stared out of the pages, identical down to the leather jacket and bleached hair.

"Nice prints, what kind of resolution?"

"You're missing the point. Who's the guy in the photos?"

"Detective Williams," Ben answered, puzzled. "You sent a photo with the blood sample."

"Check the time stamp."

"A year ago. So what?"

"Those pictures are from the Watcher's Council and they aren't pictures of Davis Williams." Frye picked up the pencil again and began to tap it absently on his knee. "They're pictures of Spike. Also known as William the Bloody, sired by Drusilla in 1880. Dusted about six months ago in New Orleans according to the Council."

"A vampire?"

"A vampire."

"It's possible that they're identical by chance. Odds are pretty steep but not technically impossible. You're sure this isn't Williams?"

"The Council's pretty sure." Frye shrugged, staring at his pencil as though it had the answers he was looking for. "As sure as I am that Davis Williams has a heartbeat and no sunlight issues." He'd seen Davis and Faith together, hand and hand, looking for all the world like a newlywed couple as they laughed their way down the sidewalk. He'd seen them fight together. Two angels of death in black leather, each movement perfectly in synch and evenly matched in strength and speed.

"This isn't because she's sleeping with him. Is it? The guys talk, you know, and-"

Frye interrupted him sharply. "According to the Council, she was fucking Spike the vampire before she killed him." The words tasted bitter, poisonous, and he wished he'd never made that phone call. Never asked the right questions and gotten all the wrong answers.

"Twisted."

"I hear it's a Slayer thing. So no, it's not about her and Davis." He shifted in his seat and stopped tapping for a moment. "I'm curious. I want to know what he is and where he came from. If he is Spike reincarnate or brought back to life somehow, I want to know how and why."

"Asking the unanswerable questions here."

"There have to be answers out there somewhere. Someone has to know what happened."

* * *

Spike closed the cupboard door and turned back to the Slayer watching him. "You know there's not a drop of alcohol in this place?"

"I know." Her voice stayed casual even though she stiffened just enough for him to notice the change in demeanor. It wasn't the first time he'd mentioned liquor and watched her go distant. She'd ordered a glass of water at the restaurant the night before and artfully skirted his questions with offhand comments about not being in the mood and driving home.

"Don't remember you having anything against a drink now and then." He pressed a little, trying to find his way into the maze that was Faith. He knew that she had let him further into her world than she had let anyone, let him see inside her where she was human and fragile, but there were pieces of her still locked tightly away from his questions.

"Things change." Dismissing the topic casually, Faith headed into the living room and settled onto the couch with a magazine.

He wasn't sure if he was supposed to follow her. They were still feeling out the boundaries and expectations of their relationship. The spacious apartment had more than accommodated his arrival and the few things he had decided to keep as reminders of his brief months in idyllic human ignorance before the past had come back to haunt him. Clothes mostly, odds and ends, photographs of a past that had never happened. They'd fallen into an easy rhythm of work and play. Living apart had never been considered, never a possibility now that they had managed to find each other again. He returned to the Police Force as soon as he could shoot straight and after he'd worked out all the lies in his head.

Lying to the men he had considered friends and colleagues was difficult, lying to the press was easy. Lying to Dr. Coleman had fifty-fifty odds of blowing up in his face, but if she had doubts about his story, she hadn't voiced them. In the end, he didn't have the heart to ruin the name and legacy of Lieutenant Scott Merritt. There was a detailed story, aided in fabrication by the team of misfits that Faith worked with. The government also had a vested interest in keeping the truth under wraps, supplying the evidence Spike needed and sneaking in through the technological back doors to make the numbers add up. Davis Williams was once more in the headlines, his face and words splattered in ink everywhere he turned until the next story came along.

The simplest lies were always the best.

The cover story was that Merritt had been working with the Drug Enforcement Agency, investigating a drug ring operating out of the warehouse district and spreading throughout the east coast. Believable enough. Suspecting that someone inside the force was either turning a blind eye or taking in something on the side, the Lieutenant had turned to Spike as a cop he knew he could trust. The story unraveled from there. Mistakes made, reconnaissance gone south and Merritt had died in the crossfire as the criminals panicked. With two fingers crossed behind their back, the boys on Faith's team had managed to produce half a dozen types of drugs at the crime scene like a bouquet of mild-altering rabbits out of a smoking hat. Beyond that, they'd found a worn section of pipe in the underground gas line that had been struck by a stray bullet, incinerating the building above it and half of the surrounding block. It was all wrapped up in a neat, tidy package of lies and falsification. The Lieutenant had gotten a heart-wrenching tribute at his funeral, an American flag draped over a casket with someone else's body inside, and a twenty-one gun salute. He'd died a hero in the war against crime.

Life was a funny thing.

He knew why Faith was afraid to tell the Scoobies he was alive; he was terrified himself of what would happen if they knew. Every time his life seemed to be making a turn for the better was when it all went to Hell. Here, now, he felt as though his most incredible dream had come true. He was almost too afraid to even breathe, afraid that it was all going to fall apart again. There was plenty of tension in their own backyard as it was. The crew had uneasily welcomed him into their midst, never truly vocalizing the fact that he wasn't quite like the rest of them. Stronger and faster, he and Faith left the rest of them milling around with nothing to do as the Slayer and her Who-Knows-What boyfriend took the demon world to the cleaners. Beyond that, he didn't know what Faith had told her former lover, but Frye was uncharacteristically quiet and a little pinched around the edges when he spoke to Spike.

Spike couldn't blame him. He knew what it felt like to imagine Faith with someone else, knew how infuriating and painful it must be. He wasn't about to rock that boat either. She was his, in the bedroom and out of it, and there was no fucking way any other man was going to lay a finger on her. Machismo and testosterone aside, he knew it was her decision and he was determined to hold on to her as long as he could. As long as she wanted him, he would be there.

He heard the cell phone ring. Knew from the way her voice dropped that it was Frye and he had to take a deep breath to keep from getting close enough to hear the conversation. It wasn't any of his business. Almost inaudibly, the phone clicked shut and the silence thickened to the consistency of molasses, giving the impression that time and light slowed down in their furious racing and were stuck in the conspicuous absence of sound, like wild beasts with invisible hooves firmly planted in a tar bed. He waited until he heard the couch shift as her weight left the cushions and the soft footfalls as she returned to the kitchen.

"He found her," her voice was stone cold and heavy.

Spike only nodded and opened his arms, hugging her tightly when she came to him. "Right then. We'll make a day of it. See the sights, do some shopping. Sound good?"

"Yeah." She pulled away, looking around aimlessly as she collected her things. Car keys, wallet, a jacket in case the weather turned. Fall was in full swing, leaves changing and lighting up the New England area in a blaze of color. Cold air had crept into the city, leaving a chill in the wind even when the sun still shone down brightly.

Tugging the keys from her fingers, he took her hand as they left the apartment. "Got the address?"

"Here." She stuffed the crumpled piece of paper into his jacket pocket, eyes still darting around nervously.

"Hungry?"

"No. I'm good."

Conversation was kept light and superficial as they drove, commenting on the weather or the color of the leaves. About places they'd heard about and a new dance club opening up that might be worth trying. It was the idle banter of two people talking to reassure each other that they were still there, still together.

He broke the unwritten law of subject skirting with a quick glance toward the passenger seat. "You're gonna be fine, luv."

"I can't even tell you how much I hate her." Faith kept staring out the window.

"It's over now."

"It's never over, is it?" Shifting in the seat, she sought out his hand, thumb stroking the back of his fingers lightly. "The past is always there. Always comes back. I tried running away. That turned out fucking fantastic with an extra serving of jail time. Tried fighting back, tried forgetting about it. Tried drinking." She stopped abruptly, as though there had been more to the sentence, but she didn't want to finish it. "But it never goes away."

"No. It never does."

"Then what's the point of doing this? So the bitch is still alive. Why should I care?" Her voice dropped, tired and strained. "Why should I care?"

Unable to think of a good reason and knowing that despite her protests, she actually did care, Spike kept his eyes on the road as he drove toward the address in his pocket. He took the longest route he could think of that wouldn't cross state lines or require a plane ticket. They wove through Boston, closing the circle on the rundown apartment complex that would bring Faith back to her past. It was a line he'd crossed more than a century before and it had scarred him. He wasn't sure which was worse, having a mother who doted on him turn into a demon or a mother who had never loved him at all. The experience was so far beyond his experience and imagination, he couldn't begin to understand.

Shaking herself visibly, she smiled. "Been crazy moody for the last few days. Sorry."

"Woman's prerogative." He grinned when she punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I have to use that arm, Slayer."

"Really? What for?" She raised an eyebrow, brown eyes raking down his chest suggestively.

"Killing vampires, of course."

"Just that?"

"Maybe a few other demons, throw down a beating or two." Winking playfully, he made a right turn and slowly eased into a parking space outside their destination. He left the engine running, half expecting her to change her mind and want to go home.

"It doesn't seem real," she mused as she stared out the window at the rundown building. "New address, same shitty apartment building. Wonder if she still wears that cheap perfume. Supposed to smell like wildflowers."

"Didn't fill your head with images of poppy fields?"

"Couldn't smell anything but the schnapps." Visibly steeling herself, she climbed out of the car and took up a patch of concrete to stare up at the building.

Spike followed her, one hand raising enough to rest comfortably against her shoulder blades, letting her know that he was with her every step of the way. She wasn't alone. Despite the cool air outside, the hallways of the building were stifling and oppressive. Stained carpet and peeling wallpaper added to the gloom, building images of shouting tenants and kids in second or third hand clothes with dirty faces; of broken bottles and cigarette burns. It wasn't a place that welcomed or brought back memories of Grandma's cooking, crackling fireplaces, and hot cocoa. It was a place where dead end lives collected behind battered doors lining the narrow hallways and tainted the air with pent-up anger and despair as thick as the smoke.

"206. This is it." Faith took a deep breath as she squared off against the door, looking more like she was preparing for battle than meeting her mother.

"You don't have to do this, luv." Spike caressed her shoulders gently, kissing the back of her neck.

"Yeah, I do." She turned her head just enough to press her temple against his lips and give him a smile. "And it was your idea in the first place."

"I'd offer to bite her."

"But no fangs."

"Pity."

"Yeah, well, stakes work just as well on humans as they do vamps."

Spike brushed his lips over her hair, squeezing her shoulders one last time before he moved back and took a deep breath. "Let's do it then. Those hot fudge sundaes won't wait forever."

"Right." With a brusque nod, she raised one fist and rapped hard on the flimsy door. They waited. Nearly a minute had passed before they heard footsteps behind the wood and the sound of a lock sliding away. The door opened, chain still attached, just enough for a woman's face to peer into the hallway.

"Whatever you're selling, I don't want it," she snapped angrily before moving to close the door.

Faith put her hand out to stop the door from shutting completely. "Mom?"

More silence. The woman stared at them for a few long seconds with a puzzled look on her face before she reached for the chain, pulling open the door once it was unlatched. Spike was amazed how much she resembled Faith when he finally got a good look at her. Same bone structure, same wide brown eyes and dark hair. It was streaked with gray, tugged tightly into a severe ponytail that conflicted with the flamboyant pants and snug tank top. Gaudy earrings dangled from her ears, wrinkles deepening as she sucked at her cigarette.

"Well, well, little Firecracker's finally come home." It was the same rich, husky voice that came from Faith's lips, but edged with the hardness of someone who'd lived a long, hard life.

"I was in the neighborhood," Faith offered vaguely.

"Almost didn't recognize you. What the hell happened to your face?"

"Car accident." She was getting more agitated, more defensive by the syllable.

"Who's the babe?" Faith's mother eyed Spike appreciatively and held out her hand, complete with long, lacquered nails at the end. "I'm Emma. Don't suppose she told you that, did she?"

Spike glanced at Faith quickly, seeing her look down at the floor as he shook her mother's hand. "It didn't come up, ma'am."

"Don't ma'am me, I'm not that old." The laugh was harsh from years of smoking, her thumb rubbing against the back of Spike's hand as she pushed open the door with her hip and nodded toward the dim interior. "Come on in, handsome."

"We don't want to take up too much of your time." Spike kept one hand on Faith's lower back protectively as they stepped through the threshold.

"I have a few minutes to spare." Emma shoved a pile of magazines off of the battered sofa before settling into an equally ragged easy chair. Cigarette smoke curling around her fingers, she reached for a tumbler sitting on the table beside the chair and sipped at her drink. "So you've come back to check in on your dear old mother."

"Something like that," Faith answered stiffly as she took a seat on the sofa, hands clenched into fists in her jacket pockets.

"Looks like you're doing well for yourself." Brown eyes raked over Faith with casual dismissal. "Nice boots."

"They do."

"Expensive."

"They were."

Spike sat back uneasily, wondering if he should have come fully armed in case the two women decided to fight it out. The room was unkempt and shabby, whatever money she earned was obviously spent on something other than furnishings and cleaning supplies. Faded magazines, a few empty beer bottles tucked into corners, and a layer of dust accumulating over every flat surface. One of the lamps was giving off a faint buzzing noise, the bulb flickering. There were pictures hanging on the walls and some without frames tacked to the plaster. None of them were of Faith.

"How much did he cost?" The rough voice jerked him back from his perusal of the rooms. A gentle touch from Faith let him know that he didn't need to interfere.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Faith demanded coolly.

"Come on, you expect me to believe that you snagged this guy with that face? Are you even wearing cover-up?" One eyebrow arched disdainfully. "I taught you better than that."

"You taught me," Faith repeated incredulously. "What exactly do you think that you taught me?"

"Everything you know."

"You don't even know me."

"Don't I?" Fake nails scratched against the ashtray as she stubbed out her cigarette. "I carried you in my body for nine months. I raised you. Like hell I don't know you."

"And where were you for the rest of my life?"

"You're the one who left, Faith. Not me."

"I left because you were too drunk to even remember who I was. I left because you cared more about getting your fix than stopping that bastard Shane from coming into my bedroom at night."

"You always were an ungrateful brat."

"And you're still a worthless bitch."

Spike reeled as the conversation whipped past him. It was one more piece of the Faith puzzle, one more piece of her that she had carefully locked away and kept from him. His first impulse was to pull her out of there, pick her up and carry her away from the harpy with painted claws, spitting whiskey scented barbs. He wanted to take her away from the woman who was still doing damage years after the events.

Emma's hand trembled as she finished off the glass of liquor and reached for the pack of cigarettes. "So you came back to tell me how all your problems are my fault. Blame it all on me. Go ahead. I don't give a fuck."

"Did you ever?" Faith's knuckles were white.

Emma laughed, cruel and mocking. "You were a goddamn mistake. Asshole told me he was fixed and I believed the fucker. I was fifteen."

"Who was he? Do you even know that much?"

"Hell no. Even if he told me his name, I was too high to remember."

Faith crumbled a little, eyes dropping to the coffee table in front of them. Instinctively, Spike slipped his arm around her back for reassurance. His own fists were aching for a go at the older woman. It hadn't occurred to him that Faith might be looking for her father, that she might not know who he was. That her own mother didn't know the father of her child.

"This was a waste of time." Faith tensed to get up.

"What? No hug?" Emma sneered bitterly. "Always thinking about yourself. Poor Faith, her mother did her wrong. Did you ever think about me? About my life? What I wanted?"

"What did you want? Cause it sure as hell wasn't me."

"Having you ruined my life. Screaming needy little brat, couldn't get a moment's peace until you ran away. And now you come waltzing back with your fancy boots to show me how well you're doing." Puffing furiously, she leaned back in the chair and propped her feet up on the table. "You were worthless from the day you were born and you're still worthless. Fucking everything with a dick. You didn't think I knew about that, did you? Didn't think I knew about the boys climbing in your window at night? Does your pretty boytoy know all about that? How much is he paying you to fuck him? Cause you aren't worth shit."

"Do not bring him into this," Faith snarled, shoulders tensing.

"The only thing you ever did for me was get Shane to drop the price a few bucks."

Spike came off the couch cushion a second before Faith, hurling the coffee table across the room where it shattered against the wall, sending a cascade of photos crashing to the floor and rattling the lamps. Grabbing Emma's hand hard enough to crunch the bones together and make her cry out, he wrenched the cigarette from her fingers and yanked her out of the chair. One hand closed around the bitch's neck, but all Spike could see was her twisted smile as she let her dealer destroy her own daughter.

"Spike! No!" Faith dragged him away, pulling his fingers off her mother's throat and shoving him toward the far side of the room.

"Sorry," he spat out, hands still itching to kill.

Emma gasped for air, collapsing back into the chair and staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. She managed to cough, reaching for her empty glass. "I'm calling the cops."

Faith put both hands down on the armrests and looked her mother squarely in the face. "He is a cop. And believe me when I tell you that no one will listen to you. No one will miss you if you suddenly disappear and no one will look for your body." Ignoring her mother's spluttering denials, Faith continued. "Do you want to know what you taught me? You taught me that the world is an ugly, horrible place. You taught me that I was nothing, that I would always be nothing. You taught me to hate, to be angry. You taught me that there is no such thing as love, that it's all about money and taking care of number one."

Emma glanced at Spike warily, cowering in the chair. "He's a cop?"

"In fact, he's a goddamn American hero." Faith snatched the newspaper crumpled on the floor and tossed it onto her mother's lap; Spike's picture filled the front page. "What's the matter, mom? Can't you read?" Her mother's face paled as she blinked down at the newspaper, comparing the image to Spike.

"Well…I…" she stammered nervously.

"Do you want to know something else?" Faith pulled away. "You were wrong about all of it. The world isn't ugly or horrible. Maybe it's not perfect but there are still good people out there. There are people who care, people who are capable of love. People who aren't like you, who aren't so fucked up that they don't even know what it is to be happy. And I am not nothing. I'm part of something you wouldn't even understand." She paused to take a deep breath. "This man, he doesn't pay me, I don't pay him. He wants me. Me. And when he looks at me, he sees what you never could."

Spike heard her voice break and stepped forward to take her arm. "Let's go, luv. We're done here."

"It's over now, mom." A muscle ticked in Faith's jaw. "You're dead to me." She turned so sharply that she nearly ran into Spike and headed for the front door like a freight train. He turned to follow her, not daring to even look back.

"Is it true?" Emma croaked behind him. "What she said?"

He stopped halfway down the hall. "Every word."

"Do you love her?"

He glanced back over his shoulder at the suddenly frail looking woman sitting in a rundown living room; at the image of what Faith would and would never be. Her hair would streak with gray and wrinkles would line her face as the years marched by, but Faith would never be weak, never be broken. In that moment, he realized that he did love her. Not the way he had loved Dru or Buffy, but it was just as real. A new kind of love that he didn't understand and hadn't felt before. He nodded, waiting for a caustic remark from the bitter woman's lips.

Instead, she sighed and rubbed at her throat. "Then she did okay for herself. Didn't turn out like me."

"No. She didn't turn out like you."

"Good." Reluctantly, she turned back to the armchair and pulled out another cigarette. "We always hated each other."

"I've only known you for twenty minutes and I hate you."

Emma cackled, snorting with laughter as she began picking up the pieces of the coffee table. "Yeah, well, that makes two of us."

"Why'd you do it?" He had to ask. Morbidly, stupidly, he had to ask. "Hurt her like that. You didn't have to. You could've acted like her mother. Just this once."

Straightening, she waved to the door. "Get out of here. I've had enough of this fucking soap opera for one day. You won't be back so don't bother saying goodbye. Just shut the door on your way out."

"My pleasure." He slammed the door hard enough to knock the remaining pictures off of the wall and hurried from the building, looking around anxiously for Faith. She was sitting in the car, eyes closed and head resting on the arm draped out of the car window.

"Did you kill her?" she asked without opening her eyes.

"Not worth the effort." He crouched down on the curb beside the car and took her hand in his.

"Too bad." The corner of her mouth quirked and her lashes fluttered for a second before they rose. "You owe me a double hot fudge sundae with sprinkles."

"I don't know about the sprinkles," he teased.

"That was totally sprinkles worthy."

"All right, sprinkles it is."

"And a cherry on the top."

"And a cherry."

* * *

It was a bright and sunny day in the photograph.

Cordelia glanced at it curiously before dropping it on Wesley's desk. Warm sand, warm azure water capped with white frosting as it lapped up against the miniscule people captured in that happy moment on the beach. Brazil. Rio de Janeiro.

Wesley stared at it. He looked as though he'd never gotten a postcard before and she was pretty sure he didn't know anyone in Brazil. Mostly sure. There was one person who might be there but she wouldn't have a reason to send him a postcard. She knew that he wanted it to be from Cara, but he didn't dare hope for it. He didn't dare flip over the stiff paper and read the handwriting on the back just in case it wasn't from her and he would be left wondering if she was still alive. Wondering if she was still trapped in the Hell of Lilah's making and if she'd killed any more human beings since Sunnydale. They were all asking themselves the same questions.

"Aren't you going to read it?" Taking her cue from Angel's surreptitious nod, Cordelia took a seat across from Wesley and continued to stir her coffee lazily. "Usually the whole point of sending a postcard is to, you know, keep in touch. Kinda helps to read it."

"I was just thinking." The postcard slid through his fingers and scraped against the tabletop.

"I can see the signature from here, do you want me to tell you who it's from?"

Wesley smiled tolerantly. "Why don't you read the whole thing, Cordy? I know you're dying to get your hands on it."

"All right then. All you had to do was ask." She snatched the postcard out of his hand and made a big show of getting ready to read it. It was addressed to _'Watcher'_, which could only be Wesley and that meant it was from Cara. Good, maybe he'd stop moping. She kept reading. The connotations of the message sent her blood draining from her face and head, leaving her dizzy and shaking. She wondered when the world had started spinning and playing musical chairs with her sanity.

"Cordelia?"

"It says," her voice trembled as she stared bleakly at the postcard. "Watcher."

"Yes?" There was obvious relief in his voice, knowing it was from Cara.

"It says. Wolfram and Hart betrayed you. She isn't what they said she is." More silence. She could feel Angel's eyes on the back of her head and knew that Wesley had turned to stone, his face losing all expression as his brain processed those five words.

The first to break the silence, Angel left his seat and moved toward them. He reached for the card. "I wonder what it means. Lilah?"

"Possibly," Wesley said hesitantly. "Perhaps it wasn't truly Lilah at all. We accepted their explanation, her explanation. I looked into breaking her contract with Wolfram and Hart, but never wondered if she was something else entirely."

"This cannot be good." Cordelia looked between Angel and Wesley, suddenly expecting a Wolfram and Hart SWAT team to come barreling through the windows at any moment. "What were we thinking? Of course, the lawyers betrayed us. Are we all stuck in eternal contracts too? Did we even look?"

"Cordy-" Angel began.

"I'm not going to be at the beck and call of Wolfram and Hart for eternity, Angel."

"You won't be." Lilah's voice cut short her rant. She smiled at Wesley as she closed the main door behind her. "Hello lover."

Wesley stood up slowly, both hands flat on his table. "What are you doing here?"

"Saying goodbye. But you could've figured that out by yourselves. Always knew that brain of yours would come in handy." Lilah touched her neck absently. "Now that you know, time's up and I'm headed back to Hell. I'd just distract you if I stayed. Something about a vampire who tends to become obsessed with revenge." She crossed to one of the bookshelves, running her fingers lightly over the books. "I'd love to say it's been fun working for you but it really hasn't and I don't feel like lying anymore." She didn't turn around, continuing to scan the bookshelf and speaking quietly, almost absently, as she moved back toward the office door. "I can't tell you anything else without getting into more trouble with the higher ups and believe me when I tell you that the shit hit the fan over this Slayer nightmare." Finally she turned around and smiled. "I can tell you this much. Everything I know, she knows."

"What do you mean?"

"Cara. Your Slayer. Do you have any idea how much it costs to change that many passwords? They're even replacing the regular locks. You'll get your keys on Monday."

"No more riddles, Lilah." Anger had crept into Wesley's voice.

"No riddles, no games. The world is changing and the Slayers are number one on the hit list. But it's bigger than that, bigger than you and me, bigger than Wolfram and Hart."

"And Cara knows this?"

"She doesn't know what she knows, hasn't put the pieces together yet. It'll take her a while to make sense of the alphabet soup stuck in her head and figure it all out. The Senior Partners were hoping that she wouldn't be lucid enough to write that postcard, but she's got a better grip on sanity than we'd like." Lines formed over her brow as she frowned. "Whoever messed with the neural transfer knew what they were doing, exactly which memories to give her. It's been right there in front of you the whole time and you never even saw it."

"Why are you telling us this?"

"Because I have nothing left to lose. Except the witty banter and the pleasure of your company which, actually, can't say I'll miss it all that much."

"And you're saying that Cara knows what's going to happen to the Slayers?" Angel was watching her like a hawk, indecision warring across his face.

"More than that, my sunlight challenged nemesis. She knows how to get your Shanshu."


	41. Romancing The Slayer

**Romancing The Slayer**

"Xander!"

Buffy pushed up on the rung of the high backed chair to wave across the crowded Espresso Pump. When he disappeared from her view, she took a couple deep breaths to calm herself, remembering to drop the napkin she was in the process of slaying. Smoothing out the wrinkles in the torn paper napkin as best she could, she changed positions several times as she waited for him to weave his way through the people.

Xander grinned as he ducked out of the melee with his soup bowl of hot cocoa. He added a dash of cinnamon as he took a seat across from her. "It's my favorite blond slaying pal."

"I'm your only blond slaying pal, Xander."

"Then you're my favorite by default." He sipped his cocoa and gave her a satisfied smile. "So, what baddie's got you calling the Xan-man for help? Demon? Vampire? More of those wacky gremlins with the fuzzy hair?"

"Willow pretty much barbequed all of those."

"Gotta love the new high voltage Willow." For a moment he hesitated, opening his mouth several times without finding the words. "You don't think?"

"No," Buffy cut him off quickly. "She says it's something about the whole world being more magical or some other highly technical meta-whatsit thing I don't understand. No draining of any bookstores and no creepy veiny-ness in sight."

"Good. Cause, you know, we might worry."

"I asked." She smiled and spun her teabag around with the spoon. "How are you doing? With the job and Jane. How's Jane?"

"She's good. Last year of school busyness and stress. It gets hectic, but she's doing fine. I'm good. Lot of meetings and the usual power tools working their evil mojo on my migraines."

"But life's good?"

"As good as Sunnydale gets."

Buffy tried looking at her mug from a different angle, seeing if it made her any less nervous about where she wanted the conversation to go. "Good, good."

"Do you need help with patrol? Research? With all the manpower you've got now it's been like a vacation."

"Patrol's totally covered. The guys really love to get out there and kill things."

Most of the time, she was grateful that there was a group of young Marines waiting to do just that every night. She'd had more free time in the last few months than she'd ever had in her life, including the years before she was called and she was unbelievably well-paid to tag along and give the guys pointers about demons and fighting techniques.

"Trouble with Riley? I know he's been missing in action a lot now that Sam's getting further along."

"He's great. Really. He brings Aaron to training some days and they're so cute together. Way off the cuteness scale."

"Dawn?"

"No, Dawn's perfect. The definition of perfection. Quiet, tidy. Doesn't shoplift or date vampires. A million percent satisfaction on the Dawn front."

"Well, whatever the problem is, I'm your man. Lay it on me."

"It's complicated." Buffy bit her lower lip and took a sip of tea as a last-ditch stalling technique. She couldn't avoid it forever. "And really random. But sometimes random things are the best, you know? Like one of those toy thingies. You put your quarter in and who knows what you'll get. Maybe a keychain or a bracelet or even one of those gooey hands that stick on windows."

"How random are we talking here?"

"Now you're suspicious! You're thinking that maybe you'll put your quarter in and get a Spice Girls binder sticker instead of the mini football helmet."

"You have to admit, Buff, Sunnydale random is usually weird and freaky random instead of winning lottery ticket random."

"Yeah." She frowned down at her tea for a second and took another gulp. "Do you think, I mean, you're still young and handsome and marketable."

"I am," he answered slowly, raising his eyebrows.

"And I don't want to be one of those friends who are too pushy or anything. Just a question."

"Ask away."

"Are you going to ask Jane to marry you?" Buffy winced as he choked on his cocoa. "I'm being pushy, aren't I? That was pushy."

"No, no. It's a good question. Just give me a second to get the chocolate out of my lungs." Coughing hoarsely, he gave her a weak laugh and took a deep breath as soon as he could. "We haven't talked about it. Just sort of letting things happen. You know, come what may. Que sera, sera. It's all very Doris Day."

"I like Jane, I really do. She's plucky." Buffy cradled her mug for a moment, wondering if that was actually a compliment.

"She's a good woman."

"Have you thought about kids?"

Xander stopped the mug at his lips and put it down gently. "I think I'll just wait to drink this until after you're done asking questions."

"I told you it was random. It was just something that I've been thinking about lately. Since I'm one of the three remaining Slayers and I'm supposed to do the regeneration thing. All very important, fate of the world, yada, yada." She gripped the mug tightly to hide the fact that her hands were shaking and prayed she wouldn't shatter it before she finally managed to get through the whole story.

"The biological clock is ticking, I see."

"Sort of. I do want children. Someday. I just wanted to know if you had thought about it. Input, feedback, someone to talk to."

"And you couldn't talk to Will?"

"I was sort of uncomfortable talking to Willow about it. I know it's girl stuff but I wanted a male perspective." A suitable lie popped into her head and spun out through her mouth before she could stop it. "What happens when I find someone and we start dating and I say, hey! I want a baby; it's kinda to save the world. What would you say? Give me the inside scoop on the male mind."

Xander considered it for a moment. "He'd probably run screaming from the room."

"Would you? Run screaming that is."

"If Jane told me she wanted a baby? I'd probably suggest getting a cat but she's already got one. Who is one freaky cat, by the way. Some days I think he can read my mind. And I've seen him turn on the radio, I swear."

"So I probably shouldn't say that. The baby thing."

"Probably not. Although, if he was a nice, mature kinda guy, he'd at least hear you out before he ran away."

"Right." Losing steam, she settled for staring down into her mug despondently and considered abandoning the idea completely.

"Buff? You okay?"

"Yeah, just a lot on my mind, I guess."

"Have you even found anyone you like?" He smiled affectionately as he reached for his cup. "I got the impression that the dating circuit wasn't exactly the thrill ride of the century for you."

"There's a good possibility that all the decent men on the planet who are also interested in Buffy Summers also have the good sense _not_ to live in Sunnydale."

There was also the little detail about two-thirds of her ex-boyfriends having died at least once and all three thirds, plus a bit more for good measure, having left her. That was the part that kept stinging, that kept her wary and aloof. What was the point of finding a boyfriend if he was just going to turn tail and hop away into the sunset to find someone else? Or die. The sound of goodbye was one death knell that she'd heard too often and was determined to never hear again.

"But you're still young, why are you worried about it?"

"I told you it was complicated." She didn't want to get back on the boyfriend train; didn't want to go through the pain of losing any more men to stakes, swords, curvy brunettes, or all of the above. No more funerals, no more mourning when one more lover had to be sacrificed to save the world. Two was still a coincidence and she wasn't about to give Fate the chance to make it a pattern. It was time to start making plans that didn't revolve around a man. That way, if she did find someone, her life wouldn't be destroyed when he left and if she never found someone; Viva the Less-Painful Life for Buffy.

"I eat complicated for breakfast."

Buffy placed the mug carefully on the table and picked up the napkin again, twisting it between her fingers. "I figured that even if I haven't found someone yet, I could still think about it. And prepare. That kind of thing. Take vitamins, do exercises. Read a few books about babies."

"Good plan." He motioned for her to continue.

"I set up an appointment with one of the army doctors, since they already know I'm the Slayer and I figured that's something that they'd need to know about. For prenatal care and stuff. Since the government's paying for all of it, why not?" The napkin was tattered, looking sad and broken in her hands. "I went in and told Dr. James my plan. He thought it was a great idea so he ordered all these tests and gave me some books, a whole case of vitamins, and lots of ideas for meals."

"Sounds like you're being the Girl Scout Buffy we all know and love."

Picking pieces of the napkin off of her fingers, she felt the giddy energy from earlier fade away. "The thing is, is that when Dr. James did an ultrasound, he got this weird look on his face. Then he did another and another. Then he wanted to stick this little camera up there and look around."

"Are you sure you don't want to be telling Willow this?"

"I'm sorry, Xander. I know it's too much information, but I'm trying to explain. I'm trying to tell you that I can't have children." She tried to smile and put her arms on the table. Her fingers listlessly pushing the spoon around for lack of anything better to do. The news had hit her like an ambush, threatening to destroy the fragile vision she had begun to build for her future. Restoring the Slayer line was just a happy side effect, ensuring that the world would be merrily celebrating Christmas years after she was gone.

"Buffy. I'm sorry."

"He said there's no way for the egg to get through the tubes. They're all blocked with scar tissue. Too many kicks to the stomach, I guess." Tears had already been shed in the privacy of her bedroom. As she'd gone through her own baby pictures longingly, feeling empty and broken; wishing that her mother was there to hold her and tell her that everything would be just fine, that miracles happened even for Slayers. Then she'd tried to convince herself that it was for the best, that Faith and Cara could carry on the Slayer lines. But that only went as far as wondering if both of the other Slayers would have the same problem.

"And there's nothing they can do? Surgery?"

"They can try but he said they'd probably just create more scar tissue." Exhaling shakily, she smiled as he took her hand and gave her fingers a comforting squeeze. "I haven't told Dawn yet. I just couldn't tell her. She bought me some pregnancy books and, even though she tells me I'm all weird and baby hungry, I think she was sort of excited to be an aunt."

"I'm sorry," he repeated sympathetically.

"Dr. James said that I could try in vitro fertilization. At least, I'd have almost a fifty-fifty chance. It's really expensive, but I wouldn't have to pay for it and he can bring in a couple doctors he says are really good so I wouldn't even have to leave Sunnydale."

"Then there's light at the end of the tunnel. Don't worry, Buff. It'll all work out."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. It would take some time, they have to give me a lot of drugs and do more tests so I'd probably be out of commission for a while. Riley's team can handle patrol and Dawn's old enough to be alone, so I'm not worried about any of that." Nervousness returned full force and she tightened her grip on his hands.

"We'll take care of whatever you need."

"Normally they just use a donor for, you know, the sperm." She took a deep breath and kept going before she chickened out. "But I don't want to wonder about the father. I don't want my baby to grow up knowing that I just checked out sample A-05 and that their father doesn't even know they exist. And I don't want it to be someone I don't know and admire. I want it to be someone I love."

"I'm sure everyone wants that."

"I want it to be you, Xander." She waited for his reaction; waited for him to tell her that he couldn't do it. Instead, he just blinked at her as the color draining from his face. "I know it's a lot to ask and you should talk to Jane first, if you want to. And it's okay if you just want to visit on birthdays and holidays. I mean, you can be as involved or as uninvolved as you want to be. Completely your call. And you can say no. I just thought I'd ask, since you're my first choice and my choices are actually pretty limited so that's not really saying much. And I really hope this doesn't make everything weird and icky between us."

"You're rambling," he told her softly and pulled his hands away.

"You're going to say no, aren't you? God, I'm sorry I brought it up."

"No, wait. I mean, don't be sorry. It's okay. Just a lot to take in." Running his hand through his hair, his cheeks puffed out for a second as he exhaled. "You're asking me to be a father. To have a baby. With you. Can I tell you how crazy that sounds?"

"I know it sounds crazy. Believe me, well aware of the craziness."

"And you're sure you want a baby now? With me?"

"I'm sure. The odds don't get any better as I get older, Xander. I'm well past the Slayer expiration date already. I can't wait for Mr. Right or even just, Mr. Has A Heartbeat and Isn't Evil. I don't have that kind of time." She wished fervently that she could explain the sense of mortality closing in around her, knowing that she probably only a had a few more years to even think about it.

"How sure is sure?"

"Sunnydale has a Hellmouth sure."

"You've thought about this?"

"A thousand hours and counting." She reached out to take his hand again. "Please, Xander. I know it's a lot. I know it's more than I have the right to ask from you and if you think about it, talk it over with Jane, and decide that you can't do it. That's okay. Just think about it. That's all I'm asking."

Nodding slowly, he stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. "When do you need an answer?"

"Take all the time you need."

"Then I'll get back to you. Tomorrow. The next day maybe."

"Thanks, Xander." She watched him walk away, looking as though he'd been struck by lightning and decided she'd done exactly that. When he disappeared out the door of the Espresso Pump, she put her chin down on her arms and stared bleakly into the thinning crowd. With her luck, she'd just ensured that Xander would never be comfortable around her again.

It had all seemed so simple inside her head. Xander was her rock; the grounding force of the Scooby world. Out of the group, he had the closest thing to a normal life and the best odds of having a normal family. If something happened to her before the baby was old enough, she had no doubt that Xander would do the right thing and take the child far away from Sunnydale. If she did manage to keep on ticking through the years, then sharing custody with Xander couldn't possibly be worse than time sharing after a divorce and they'd probably get along better than most married couples anyway. Convince Willow to be Godmother and everything would be set. But that was only in the neatly organized fantasy world of the If Wishes Were Fishes Universe.

Identify the problem, find a solution. That was her theme song.

She needed someone she could trust. Not a boyfriend; those were fickle, doomed creatures and she was done with them. Someone who knew the truth about what went bump in the night and who could hold his own against the everyday threats. And when she finally did catch the call to Slayer heaven, someone who wouldn't be too devastated over her death to take good care of the child. It was a tricky and demanding list of attributes, but Xander had passed with flying colors. He'd already seen her dead twice so a third time couldn't be that traumatic and he wasn't in love with her, extra bonus. First choice? In reality, he was her only choice. If he said no, she would take her lumps, and the unknown sperm donor, only after she bound both him and Willow in blood to take care of her baby when she died again.

"Another Buffy Summers disaster," she mused to the cold tea. "Probably should've just handed over the merchandise and let them make an army." The mug didn't answer, liquid rippling soothingly with the vibrations of the people moving around her. Given the chance and a pair of ceramic legs, she was sure it would have abandoned her as well. That was how the world worked.

"If you love someone then you have to kill them. Then you find someone else and they leave you because they're convinced you don't love them even if you do…sort of. Not the same way you loved the first guy, but it's still love, right? Once he's gone, you get on with your life and he finds Miss Perfect. So you move on too, this time it's dark and worlds of wrong and you end up in love even when you know better. But you get hurt and left behind again. And when he comes back, he's trying to kill you with a side of extra crazy. That goes about as well as polka dots and paisley. He shacks up with your reformed evil twin and ends up dead." Tea shimmered with what she decided was encouragement.

"What's left?" It was a painfully haunting question. "After the next guy leaves and then the next. What's left when they're gone? Just me. Just me."

She'd spent four long years hoping and not hoping that Spike would be the one to break the vicious cycle and come back, only to watch him fall to the Buffy Summers curse. This time she'd hurt more than just herself. Logically she knew that it wasn't her fault, but logic didn't reach the part of her that felt guilty. Spike's soul had nearly ended the world, Spike's soul had cost him his life and he had gotten it because of what had happened in Sunnydale. Because of her. She was just as responsible as Faith.

"The truth is," she finally admitted to the listening mug. "Everyone I love dies, leaves, or suffers. I'm like the plague. And I'm through with it." She had loved and lost enough, it was time to try the never loved at all tactic. Even if it meant that she would be alone, and probably lonely, she was determined not to ruin another life or kill another lover. And maybe, just maybe, that bleak future wouldn't be quite so bleak if it had someone in it. A small, round, crying someone with bottles and diapers.

* * *

Jane was folding laundry. She looked beautiful with the corner of a blanket tucked under her chin as she wrestled to fold it into quarters. She was singing some loopy song with nonsense words. Xander loved the little things. The singing, the look of concentration as she blew the hair out of her face and snagged the last corner of the blanket. The way she would talk to Bugsy and crumple up the fabric softener sheet for him to bat around the linoleum of the laundry room; the way she would laugh at his antics and bend down to kiss his head. She loved that cat. She embraced life with an openness and optimism that Xander wondered if he'd ever seen in anyone else. She was a little of Buffy, a little of Anya, a little of Cordelia, and a lot of something entirely Jane.

"Added lurking to your resume?" Brown eyes sparkled with humor and he realized that he even loved the fact that she refused to give up the ragged Spiderman shoes.

"Part time. Still working on my technique."

"Try slouching a bit more." She demonstrated, laughing as she lost her grip on the blanket and ended up dumping it in the basket unfolded. "How'd the pow-wow with Buffy go? Scooby news?"

"Sort of." He shifted to his right foot and leaned against the doorframe. "Nothing demony."

"Good. Night off for my demon-hunting boyfriend. I've got root beer floats." Her smile was infectious.

"Sounds wonderful." He caught her waist as she headed past him and pulled her into a hug. She smelled of laundry detergent and Pine-Sol. No extra fragrances, no scented lotions or perfumes. Just Jane. The way she wrapped her arms around him and stroked his back, nuzzling against him and smiling that comforting, warm fuzzy smile, was pure Jane. Let the world come tumbling down around her ears, she'd get up the next morning, break out the mop and start cleaning up the mess.

"Everything A-Ok in Xanderland?" She snuggled closer.

"Jane?"

"Yeah?"

"How long have we been dating?"

"Six months and fourteen days."

He smiled, leaning down to rub his cheek against her silky hair. No hair spray, no gel. Just Jane. "Hmmm. How do you get your hair to stay so soft?"

"Meat tenderizer. A hundred whacks a day."

"And your skin?" He brushed his fingers against the back of her neck gently.

"That's classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to tickle you to death."

"Not a bad way to die." He looked down as she pulled away and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "In your arms. Not a bad way at all."

"If I didn't know better, Xander Harris." She scrunched her face into an exaggerated expression of thoughtfulness. "I'd say you were flattering me."

'Is it flattery if it's the truth?"

"Now I know you're flattering me."

"Actually, I was aiming for seduction, but I guess I'm a little rusty." He watched her face go serious for a second, head tipping to the side as she blinked up at him. "Feel free to stop me at any time if I'm making a fool of myself."

Her smile was soft this time, gentle. "Why now? I mean, we haven't, it's been six months and we haven't."

"I'm ready now."

"You're sure?"

"Very sure." He grinned at the echo from his conversation with Buffy and leaned down to pull her tightly against him, picking her up off the floor and starting down the hallway toward the bedroom like a groom carrying his bride. "And it's going to be in a bed with candles and romantic music. We're going to do this right."

She held tight around his neck. "Define romantic music…"

"Not the Batman soundtrack."

"You're no fun."

"I do have limits." He set her down gently at the foot of the bed and shooed Bugsy out of the room. "Sorry, pal, no show for you. I promise I'll turn on the bird video later and there's an extra catnip treat for you if you refrain from scratching on the door while I make love to the lady." When he closed the door and turned around, Jane was already lighting the pillar candles she kept on her dresser and bedside tables. He picked out a soft instrumental CD from her collection and slid it into the portable stereo, smiling as he watched her turn down the comforter on the bed.

"I feel a little silly." She blushed as she took a seat at the end of the bed. "I didn't have any warning so there's no sexy lingerie or anything. Just plain old Jane."

Plain old Jane was just perfect, he thought, tracing a line across her cheek before reaching down to slip his fingers under the hem of her t-shirt and pull it gently over her head. A simple white cotton bra stood out in the soft light, showing off the freckles peppering her shoulders and chest. Taking her hand, he motioned for her to stand up and dropped his hands to her blue jeans. More cotton with a tiny floral pattern was soft against his skin as he pushed the worn denim over her hips and down her legs. Setting the jeans aside carefully, he rubbed her arms and shoulders as her fingers began working down the buttons of his shirt. He shrugged out of the fabric, watching her delicate hands as she continued undressing him. Down to his boxers, he caught her hands and nodded toward the bed. He waited for her to get comfortable before stretching out at her side and running his hand lightly over her legs, caressing her stomach and arms.

"Nothing fancy." She sounded embarrassed.

He leaned down to kiss her softly. "It's perfect."

"All those magazines talk about what I'm supposed to wear, but none of it's really that comfortable. Have you ever worn a thong? They're awful."

"You're beautiful just the way you are."

She smiled brightly, reaching up to stroke his shoulders affectionately. He let it go slowly, let the heat build as they kissed. Gentle, innocent. Waiting for the right moment, for her lips to part in an initiation. Even then, he kept it light and easy, taking his time. Holding back even when his body was screaming that he'd been waiting for six months and didn't want to wait any longer. Instead, he savored her taste and the texture of her lips. Focusing on every sensation, every connection where skin met skin, the feel of her, the scent. The way she responded to him, her touch feather light against his side and neck. Teasing, borderline tickling, she tugged him closer.

When he thought he'd go insane from just kissing her, he broke the contact and slipped one finger under the clasp of her bra. It snapped open, fabric sliding away as she inhaled. Concentrating intently on keeping the relaxed pace, he eased the straps down over her arms and dropped the bra off of the side of the bed, moving down to strip away the faded panties. After removing his boxers, he leaned back to take a long look at her body. His hand easily spanned the width of her tiny waist. Everything about her was tiny and perfectly proportioned in miniature. One breast tucked neatly into his palm, her freckled skin a stark contrast against the rough tan of his hand.

"I think.' She cleared her throat, cheeks flushing pink. "That we were supposed to talk about…all that stuff you're supposed to talk about before the clothes come off and you can't think clearly enough to talk at all."

"I thought of that. Except my back pocket is over there. Be right back."

"Wait." She stopped him, biting her lip nervously. "I'm on the pill. And completely disease free…so…if you don't want to."

Xander hesitated. "It's still a good idea. And since when are you on the pill?"

"I was sort of hoping and planning ahead. I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to pressure you." She paused with a frown. "Did I just spoil the mood?"

"No. It's very flattering." He laid down next to her and stroked her face gently. "But we should. Since it's not a hundred percent effective."

"Very practical of you." She winked at him, rolling onto her side and kissing his hands tenderly.

"How horrible would it be, for you, if it didn't work?"

"Meaning?"

His hand strayed to her stomach unconsciously. "Would it ruin your life? Or something slightly less melodramatic."

"If I got pregnant?"

"Yeah."

"Xander." She pushed up on one elbow, smiling indulgently down at him. "You're a good man and one day, when you're ready and you're sure, you'll be a wonderful father."

"How do you know that?" Silken hair caressed his skin as he combed his fingers through the straight brown locks. "My folks weren't exactly the best examples of parenthood. I haven't the slightest idea how to be a good father. I'd like to be, but it's not like there's a class you can take on being a dad."

One finger brushed against his lips. "You're not your father, Xander. You will never be your father."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because it's not all about you." Her lips were warm against his forehead. "I know you won't turn into your father because I won't let you. I love you too much to let that happen."

"I'm pretty sure the L-word wasn't supposed to come up for another few months." Xander wrapped his arms around her tightly and buried his face in her hair to hide the hint of tears glistening in his eyes.

"Yeah, more of that planning ahead."

"I wish I could say it. I just can't."

"I know."

"Don't not love me just because I'm a coward."

"You're a lot of things, Alexander LaVelle Harris." She placed her hand gently against his cheek. "But a coward is not one of them. You have more courage, more heart, than anyone I have ever known. You're not ready, that's fine. If you're never ready, that's fine too. I love you. No conditions, no strings attached. Take it or leave it, it's up to you."

Xander opened his mouth to say thank you but his brain had other ideas. "She…Buffy…wanted to know if I'd help her. Have a baby. I guess the plumbing's all messed up and she needs a donor for the in vitro fertilization."

Jane blinked rapidly for a moment before she smiled. "And you still think you're a coward?"

"Huh?"

"Listen to it again. Buffy Summers, a Vampire Slayer, has asked you, Xander Harris, to be the father of her child."

"And it was still freaky that time around."

'I think it's the most incredible compliment in the world, but you can't see it because you're still convinced that you're not good enough." She ruffled his hair affectionately. "She is asking you to be part of the next generation of Slayers. This isn't just any child, this is the future of the entire world and she chose you. She chose you."

It was Xander's turn to blink. "You wouldn't mind? If I…if we…if Buffy and I did the mad scientist song and dance?"

"It's your decision and whatever you choose, I'm behind you all the way, just don't tell her no because you feel unworthy. I don't think you're unworthy, she doesn't think you're unworthy."

He took a deep breath. "Sorry. That pretty much killed the mood Slayer style."

"Then I guess we'll have to start over."

* * *

It was just crazy enough to work.

Spike was terrified and giddily exuberant at the same time, oscillating between sitting on the sofa pretending to be interested in a magazine and impatiently pacing back and forth the living room of their apartment. Their apartment. It had happened so naturally that he hadn't noticed until he opened the door one evening, shrugged off his holster and badge and found Faith in the kitchen with flour in her hair, tomato sauce on her chin, and looking ready to kill something. She'd wanted to have dinner ready by the time he got home.

Despite the reproachful glare and handful of flour thrown in his direction, he hadn't been able to stop laughing at the image of a Vampire Slayer trying to make pasta primavera with tomato basil sauce. An hour later, washing tomato paste out of his hair and a little sore in all the right places, he'd realized that the world he thought he'd never be part of was right outside the shower door. Everything he'd wanted and all the things he hadn't realized he wanted were right there in front of him. They were possible. A normal life, a human life; two point five and the white picket fence. Granted, she wasn't a normal woman with a nice, safe day job, but he wasn't exactly a normal man with a mind-numbingly boring occupation either. She caught demons killers for a living, he caught human killers. It worked.

Another two weeks of thinking, considering his new possibilities and limitations, had culminated in a single idea that felt so foreign, so different, that he'd wondered if he'd gotten hit on the head during patrol. He was mortal now. Bloody hard to kill, but still mortal. And life was fragile, what they had was fragile. There was an entire world out there waiting to take it away, waiting to sour or destroy it. Eventually they'd have to tell the Scoobies, maybe even the Watcher's Council. Eventually, their lives would get a helluva lot more complicated than pasta primavera. He'd tried to convince himself that it was enough, that the day-to-day living, being at her side on the street and in the bedroom, was enough. After the painful visit with her mother, he'd realized that it wasn't.

So there it was. His future. Their future. Wrapped up in one small, black velvet box. Crazy, insane, maybe even the biggest mistake he'd ever made in his entire convoluted existence. None of that had ever stopped him before.

"Spike?" Faith's voice floated down the hallway, door slamming shut and the sound of her shoes hitting the linoleum in the entry way. "Sorry I'm late. Fucking paperwork. Takes fifteen forms just to get a request for a weapon upgrade cause brass frowns on the usual wooden stakes. Been just fine for a few thousand years, but they've got all the big brains thinking there's a better way." She was shaking her hair out of the headband as she rounded the corner, padding barefoot across the living room to climb onto the sofa and his lap. "How 'bout we order in? Get cozy."

Spike grinned as she nuzzled his neck, hands sliding down his sides to tug at his t-shirt. "Cozy?"

"Mmm. Cozy. You know." She nipped lightly at his ear. "The kind without all these clothes."

"Much as I would love-" His brain nearly derailed as her lips moved down his throat. "To get you out of those clothes. Sort of made other plans."

Full lips pulled into a pouty frown. "Like what?"

"Thought I'd scout around downtown, pick up a few hookers."

She punched his shoulder lightly. "Long as they're blond and you bring them home with you, I'm game."

Growling low in his throat, he wrapped his arms around her and tossed her onto her back, covering her body with his. "I'm not bloody sharing."

"Come on. Could be fun." Grinning impishly, she wriggled against him and bucked her hips. "One for you, one for me."

"Had something a little different in mind." Kissing her firmly, he wove one hand into her hair and gave himself just a few seconds of nothing but Faith. A few moments where nothing mattered but the way their bodies came together. When he was breathless he pulled away, tugging her to her feet with him and heading for the bedroom.

"Guess we're going straight for the sex?" she teased, sliding her hand over his hip and thigh.

"You are changing into something warm." He pushed her gently through the doorway and took hold of the doorknob. "You have twenty minutes before I leave without you."

"Where are we going?"

"Just wear something practical." The door clicked shut and he stepped back to wait. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets to keep from checking his watch every five seconds and settled for watching the door, searching for any sign of life coming from the bedroom. Kicking himself for not preparing her, not warning her. He'd wanted it to be a surprise. A good surprise instead of a surprise that counted down and exploded into shrapnel misunderstandings that took weeks to hammer out.

Nervously, he pulled the small box from its hiding place and tucked it into his jacket pocket. No sooner had it settled against his thigh than he could have sworn that it got heavier and started to burn through the fabric. The eyes of the universe were staring at that pocket; at the little black box that meant everything and nothing. Whatever the answer, he would understand. Hell, part of him would even be relieved if she said no as long as she had a good reason. But he had to ask. Had to try. The door opened with a click and he spun around.

"This good?" Eyebrows raised, she spun around in a mock catwalk to model the low-cut blue jeans and knit sweater. "I feel like a librarian or something. All proper and respectable."

"It's perfect." He kissed her soundly, prayed he was doing the right thing and that he wouldn't bugger it up.

Faith tightened her arms around his waist as she ended the kiss. "So what's up?"

"Just a change of scenery. You know, keepin' the magic alive."

"I always thought that meant you were supposed to break out the handcuffs."

"Got those too."

"Let's get going then. I'm hungry." She turned him around and slapped his ass for emphasis.

He was half listening on the way out of the apartment as she ranted about bureaucracy and the drawbacks of slaying for the government, occasionally commenting or asking questions as he pulled the car out and headed north. He noticed that the inflection in her voice changed just slightly when she mentioned Frye's name and her eyes darkened, looking away for a moment before she continued with her rambling. She hadn't mentioned having any trouble with Frye, but Spike was suddenly curious, wondering if she simply hadn't told him. The way she hadn't told him about Shane.

His world still colored red when he thought about it, tried to fathom how a mother could sell her child's innocence for a fix. Not a word had been spoken about that revelation and it had disappeared back into the locked part of Faith. She had turned away from him that night, rolling onto her side and staring into the darkness. Seeing her shoulders shaking, he'd wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed the back of her neck tenderly and waited for the tears to end. She didn't explain, he didn't pry. In the time that he'd known her, she'd evolved into something far and beyond what he could ever have expected. No longer the bitter and angry woman, she had finally dumped out the baggage she'd carried for too long and found a way to move on. The woman who shared his bed was vibrant, passionate, and embraced life with excitement rather than desperation. She pushed herself to the limits because she enjoyed the thrill instead of trying to drown out her pain in the flood of adrenaline.

That she opened up under his touch and relaxed in his presence continued to amaze him. Watching her with the rest of team was watching the day turn to night. She snapped shut, tight as a fist, keeping the men and women she worked with at arm's length. They saw a tough as nails Slayer who didn't take any bullshit, her attitude as raw and unpolished as her past. As soon as she stepped through the door of the apartment, she metamorphosed into a woman who laughed and smiled, who loved sugary cereal and rolled her eyes at the home shopping network. She became just Faith instead of Faith the Vampire Slayer. He loved them both. Loved the edge of the Slayer, the burn and the passion, the bad girl Faith who knew how to seduce and addict a man with one lazy smile. On the flipside, he loved the shy, almost innocent Faith who curled against him like a cat in a sunbeam.

In more than a hundred and thirty years, he had loved with passion that was eternal and passion that was overwhelming. Love that had swallowed him down and spit out a stranger. He'd gone to the ends of the earth and done the impossible. Dru had remade him in her image, Buffy had transformed him. He'd always been found wanting with love pointing out his flaws in magnification and defying him to prove himself worthy. Prove himself good enough to be loved. Love had made him its bitch, but it had never made him whole. Maybe love couldn't make him whole. But Faith could.

That was why he was doing this.

"Hey, you in there?"

"Sorry, luv. What'd I miss?" He checked the rear view mirror as he pulled onto a side road and headed for the coast.

"Just asking about the pensive look. You're a million miles away."

"Trying to remember where I'm going." That was only partly a lie. The landscape looked different at night, but he was sure they were on the right road. He could smell the salt of the Atlantic, getting stronger as they got closer to the beach. Once he passed the sign, he turned the car toward the farthest end of the parking lot near the trailhead.

"The beach?"

"Technically it's not open, but I don't figure either of us will be doing any swimming so there's no danger there."

"My luck, there'll be sea monsters," she grumbled good-naturedly as she climbed out of the car and stretched.

"Grab the blankets in the back, will you?" Spike popped the trunk, hooking the small blue cooler over one arm and snagging the battery-powered lantern before he joined Faith. She looked adorable with her hair mussed and arms full of blankets, gazing up into the moonlight.

"Cool. A picnic." She was smiling as they started down the footpath.

There was no talking as they wound through the trees, listening to the sounds of the insects and nocturnal creatures. Waves lapped against the shore in the distance. He knew that part of her was looking for vampires, searching the darkness and shadows for any sign of the evil that filled her nights. Half of his senses were tuned to the night around him as well, scanning for unwelcome guests. It seemed peaceful enough. Pale moonlight, a cool breeze from the ocean, and the glittering expanse of water as they reached sand. Another minute of walking and he stopped, setting the cooler and lantern carefully on the ground before taking the stack of blankets. They laid out a heavy charcoal blend over the sand and tumbled the rest into a pile to be wrapped around shoulders and legs.

"Bloody inconvenient sometimes, being human," Spike remarked as he settled onto the ground. "Nice thing about being a vamp is not getting cold."

Faith stretched out over the blanket, her head resting on his thigh. "So what's the occasion?"

"Can't a fella treat his lady now and then?"

"Lot of work just for sex you're gonna get anyway."

"Maybe it's not about sex." He sunk down onto his elbow and twisted around to cradle her with his body. Her skin was ivory in the moonlight, the scars on her face almost invisible as he stroked her forehead lightly. She didn't answer. Probably because she didn't believe him, because she still didn't understand that there were other motivations. In her world, sex was the only currency exchanged between men and women. Or at least men and Faith.

"There's food in that thing, right?" She glanced over him at the cooler.

"Dig in."

"Good, I'm starving."

He watched her as she sifted through the contents of the cooler, selecting a wrapped chicken sandwich and a bottle of juice. There were wine coolers in the bottom that he knew were her favorite. He wondered if it would be a good time to ask her about the sudden aversion to alcohol.

"What can I do you for?" She held up two more sandwiches. "Looks like a club and a pastrami on rye."

"Club. Thanks." He caught the sandwich and sat up to fish out a bottled water.

More silence as they ate. They stared out over the ocean, tucked snugly against each other with blankets to keep them cozy. He was more relaxed now and the box had stopped burning a hole in his pocket. Now it was just waiting for the right moment. Considering his history, the evening was rapidly climbing the ranks of most romantic moments, despite his own incompetence at romance, and he was fairly sure no one had ever planned a moonlit picnic on the beach for Faith. So far so good.

"Want anything else?"

She licked her fingers guiltily before wiping them with a napkin and giving him a wicked grin. "Can we get back to those clothes now?"

He rolled his eyes in teasing mockery. "Bloody hell, woman. Do you think of nothing but sex?"

"Only around you." One hand snaked up his thigh; her breath was hot against his skin.

"You, Slayer, are incorrigible."

"Mmm. Five syllables. Big words get me hot." She was determined now, pushing aside the blankets to straddle him and tug at his t-shirt.

Spurred by his own desire and a twitch of fear that she would notice the box in his pocket, he rolled her onto her back and began returning her attention in earnest. He could barely hear the waves over the sound of their breathing, the whisper of fabric and skin between them, and the pounding of blood inside his head. There was nothing held back, no insecurity or fear as she wriggled out of the sweater and arched her back against him. No games, no hidden motives. She touched and caressed without any hesitation or self-depreciation because she honestly wanted him; stroking his skin as clothing was pushed aside, eager to eliminate the barriers between them. What never ceased to amaze him was that nothing had changed. Soul or no soul, vampire or human, none of that mattered to her. He'd waited a hundred and thirty years to find someone who could accept him for who he was. The box could wait a few more minutes.

Beautiful in moonlight, beautiful in the sun. There weren't words to describe the way he felt as he lowered his body onto hers, skin against skin, heady with her scent and her heat. He slowed the pace with a gentle kiss, stroking her hair and keeping their eyes locked together. Watched her eyelashes flutter, her lips parted as he pushed inside her. There was a flood of emotion locked behind the eyes staring up at him, hands gripping his forearms tightly as he thrust deeper. She seemed to sense, if not understand, that he wanted this time to be different. The struggle to maintain the slower rhythm was plainly visible on her face. He wanted to reassure her, but the words got stuck in his throat, forcing him to settle for a soft moan. When had he ever done this? Maybe never. Never held a woman as gently, touched her as tenderly. When had he ever made love to a woman? It felt different. New and raw with emotion. It wasn't about passion or heat or even about sex.

"Faith," he whispered, planting light kisses down her throat, reaching one hand down between their bodies. She moaned, breathing deep as he found the right spot and pressure. So close, she was trembling in his arms as she soundlessly urged him to go faster. It was the first time he had denied her anything. "Easy, luv, easy."

"Spike." It was a moan; her fingers tightened around his arms.

He waited. Until her eyes closed, breathing hard as she struggled against him. Waited until he felt her muscles clamp down around him before he bent his head down to her ear. "I love you."

She came alive beneath him, bucking and writhing as her fingernails dug into his skin. Riding it out, he buried his face against her and let his own body find its release inside her heat. Staying inside her, breathing in the scent of sweat and skin as they clung to each other in the aftermath. Cool sea air chilled his back, sending him fumbling for blankets to cover them as they nestled together beneath the stars.

"That the occasion?" Her face was unreadable in the shadows, but her voice gave her away. The tremor of nervousness and just the slightest undertone of hope.

"Part of it." Deciding that it was now or never, he dug under the blankets to find his jeans and the little velvet box. Juggling it and the lantern, he moved the light so that she would be able to see what she was opening before placing the box carefully on the blankets between them.

"What's that?"

"Open it."

She frowned quizzically, examining the box carefully before reaching up to open it. The hinges clicked and Spike held his breath. Inside, the thick platinum band shone in the faint light, three diamonds sparkling in their metallic nest.

"Figured you'd need something that wouldn't get in the way. If you don't like it, you can pick out a different one."

"I don't understand." Baffled, her eyes searched his face quickly before turning back to the ring. "I mean, it's beautiful and I love it. But you don't need to buy me stuff."

"Yeah, I did." He stopped her protest with a finger. "Just let me finish, luv." To be sure, he kept his finger over her lips for a few extra seconds before pulling his hand away and steeling himself for every possible reaction. "You don't have to answer now, tonight, even tomorrow. Take as much time as you need to think about it. We've got all the time in the world. Just promise me you'll think about it."

"All right," she agreed warily.

"Will you marry me?"

* * *

Cordelia glanced around the darkened room distastefully. "Files and Records?"

"I'm Files and Records. What can I do for you, Miss Chase?" the brunette seated primly at the desk answered with a helpful smile.

"Right." Grateful that Fred had warned about the bizarre gatekeeper of Wolfram and Hart's files, she looked down at her list of possible research topics and wished she'd brought Wesley along. "Okay then. Let's start with Shanshu. Where do I look for that?"

"Referring to the souled vampire specifically or just the Scrolls and Prophecies of Aberjian?"

"Just Angel for now."

Files and Records pulled a heavy binder from the shelf behind her and returned to her desk. "This is the reference key for all the files concerning Angel."

"How many files are there?"

"The first thirty five cabinets."

Cordelia's eyes widened as she took in the expanse of metal drawers. "How can he possibly have that much worth writing about?"

"Much of it is redundant." She tapped the binder as she turned it around for Cordelia to read. "The Shanshu prophecy is dealt with in file S-4962. It's on your right."

"I don't suppose you could just give me the sound byte version of that file."

"The vampire with a soul, once he fulfills his destiny, will Shanshu."

"Yeah, that's the one." Cordelia sighed as she realized that she didn't really know what questions to ask. Nothing beyond vague comments from Lilah Morgan that were only possibly the truth. Not entirely un-celebration worthy, but there were too many question marks hanging in the air after she'd swept out of Angel Investigations and their lives. "What about Spike? He had a soul and did the whole saving the world thing."

"The vampire known as William the Bloody or Spike was not prophesied to regain his soul." Files and Records paused for a moment, her eyes flashing white and a disquieting clicking noise coming from her head. "He did not Shanshu."

"Dust and pointy things, I know. How do we know the prophecy's even real? Or accurate. Whichever."

"The Scrolls of Aberjian contain approximately forty three and a half prophecies. Twenty-nine of which have happened with minor differences and ten which are due to occur within the next four thousand years. Only two of the prophecies have been found to be incorrect."

"So, this Aberjian guy gets it right most of the time." She glanced around, noticing a chair and table at the head of the filing cabinet maze and sat down with her list. "Here's the deal, Miss Files and Records. Lilah told us that Cara knows how to get Angel's Shanshu and that means that Lilah knows, or knew, since she gave Cara all her memories. Why'd the Senior Partners have to fire her now? It's not like she hasn't screwed things up before."

White eyes flashed again. "Personnel records, Lilah Morgan. Status – reassigned to the Centauri office."

"Then she wasn't fired?"

"No, Miss Chase."

Cordelia sighed and retrieved the small notebook she'd gotten from Fred out of her purse, carefully writing down that Lilah had been transferred rather than fired. Checking out Lilah's story was only the beginning of the real world clue game she was playing. "Is she coming back?"

"Her reassignment is for an indeterminate length of time. For manifest employees, assignments typically last from five to a hundred years."

"Why did they reassign her?"

"She was moved to a transitory post to deal with an outbreak of vampires."

"Since she has so much experience with that." Cordelia tapped the notepad with a frown. "She said that she was leaving because they didn't want Angel to be distracted by revenge. As if we needed any more reasons to hate her." Files and Records didn't respond. On a whim, she decided to follow another line of questioning. "Do the records say anything about Angel's son?"

Click, click. "Restricted. You don't have authorization to access that information."

"Who does?"

"There is no one at the Los Angeles branch with the proper clearance."

"Lilah?"

"Yes. Miss Morgan had clearance."

"Never thought I'd want her back." Cordelia drew a line from the word Connor to the word Restricted and circled it for emphasis. "Can I get access to the memories that Lilah gave Cara?"

"All records of the neural transfer were destroyed."

"Destroyed? You guys do that? I mean, you've got a never-ending basement of files and you couldn't find room for a few more?"

"They were destroyed per the Senior Partners' request."

She rubbed her forehead tiredly. "Who had authorization for the memory swap machine? Lilah said that someone messed with it."

"Neural transfers require Department Head security clearance. The malfunction of the process in the case of one, Cara Sewell, was attributed to a software glitch."

"Good to know that even Wolfram and Hart gets screwed sometimes." She underlined the word glitch several times, feeling a strange satisfaction over the fact that something hadn't gone the way Lilah had planned. At least she wouldn't return to Fred completely empty handed. "Back to the Shanshu. Lilah knew something we don't and we were pretty sure we knew everything there was to know about Angel's Shanshu. Are there any restricted files about it?"

"No, Miss Chase. All files with reference to Shanshu are open to you."

"But the files about Connor are restricted." She had no idea what that meant. "I should have had Fred do this. She's the brainy type."

"Would you like me to create a reference key for you?"

"That would be great."

"It'll take a few minutes." Files and Records began typing rapidly on her computer, eyes flashing periodically as she searched through the files. Beside her, the laser printer hummed and whirred as it rolled out sheet after sheet.

"It's not like we have a guarantee that Cara will even know what we're talking about." Cordelia sighed, crossing off Connor and Lilah from the list of research topics. "We don't even know where she is. Do you?"

"The third Slayer is currently in the village of Sao Jorge outside the borders of Chapada dos Veadeiros national park, Brazil."

"How do you know that?"

"I'm Files and Records."

"Right. What file tells you where she is?"

"Internal memo from Senior Partners to Lilah Morgan Oct. 14, 2006. Communication observed between Cara Sewell and Angel Investigations. Security risk now considered severe. Immediate action advised to contain and eliminate the threat. Sao Jorge, Brazil."

Cordelia frowned. "That was the day before she left. So they tell her to take care of it and then transfer her? That makes a whole lotta no sense."

"Here's your reference key, Miss Chase."

To her relief, the binder was much smaller than the reference key for everything about Angel. "What did Lilah do about Cara?"

"Report filed by Lilah Morgan Oct. 14, 2006. Hello to whoever managed to find this. I'm gone now, off to greener pastures and new enemies. Congratulations Wesley, your Slayer isn't a total failure and with just a few years of intensive therapy she might actually be able to be in the same room with human beings without slitting their throats. Unfortunately, she won't live that long. Just imagine what the vampires of Earth are thinking right now. Three Slayers. Just three. And when they're gone, there won't be any more. Ever. You might want to send a heads up to Sunnydale as well. Oh, and that stuff about Angel's Shanshu? There are things you don't put down on paper. Someone might find it. Good luck getting it out of crazy Slayer's head."

Half furious and half shocked, Cordelia headed to the elevator, reference key still clutched in her hands. Swearing that the buttons on her cell phone had gotten smaller just to piss her off, she dialed the number for Angel Investigations. "Come on, pick up. Pick up." The machine whirred and Fred's cheerful voice carried through the speaker. "Fred? Anyone! Are you there? Lilah sent every vampire on Earth after the Slayers. Buffy, Faith, Cara. It's going to be the demon party of the millennium if they get all three of them. No more Slayers. Great, huh? And here we thought she didn't leave us a going away present."

The doors peeled back with a hiss. Cordelia found herself face to face with a half dozen automatic weapons and a particularly nasty demon grinning a mouthful of teeth and standing beside an empty cage. It gurgled a little as it waved a length of rope coiled around one hand; a demon cowboy called to rope her in so that none of them would get close enough to be fried.

"Please come with us, Miss Chase." One of the men motioned to the cage with the barrel of his gun.

"You've got to be kidding me." Sighing impatiently, she tucked the cell phone back into her jacket pocket and gingerly stepped inside the cage. "Fine. But you're making the biggest mistake of your lives, you know that? When Angel hears about this he's going to be ticked." They didn't answer as they picked up the cage none too gently and carried it down the hallway. At the fork, they took the left branch and moved into a section of Wolfram and Hart that Cordelia had never seen. "Where are we going? Where are you taking me?"

"Standard containment procedure, Miss Chase."

"Containment? What containment?"

"Just following orders, Miss Chase."

"From who? Angel's the boss and there's no way he'd have me locked up in a cage." At least, she was pretty sure it wasn't something he would do. She wasn't evil any more. Then again, the last time she'd been evil, she'd been trapped in that black, beaded, Gypsy tramp outfit and they still hadn't realized it wasn't her so she probably couldn't count on their keen observation skills.

"Senior Partners, ma'am."

"What? What did I do? Whatever it is, I'm sure I didn't know it was wrong. I mean, that I wasn't supposed to. Since they'd probably be happy if I did something wrong." She frowned, holding onto the bars tightly as the men jostled the cage into a niche in the wall. "Hey. Wouldn't you know, perfect fit. Not good. You're not going to leave me here, are you?"

"Sorry for the inconvenience." One of the men nodded sharply and reached for a button on the wall.

"I'm thinking that's not a good idea." Her words were cut off as the bottom of the cage fell away, gravity reaching up to wrap its tentacles around her and drag her down into the depths.

The chute beneath her thumped solidly as she landed, almost immediately losing her balance and toppling to the side as her feet and legs began to slip down the incline. Cursing Wolfram and Hart, trying to keep the reference key from digging into her side, and struggling to keep the tumbling to a minimum as she careened down the tunnel took enough effort that she couldn't dwell too much on the possibilities of what would be waiting for her at the bottom. Images of Rancor pits and Jaba the Hutt flashed through her brain compliments of Xander Harris; her breath was knocked from her lungs as she rounded a bend. A gaping hole ahead announced the end of the line. She closed her eyes tightly so she couldn't see what was going to eat her and let loose her best ear-spliting scream as solid gave way to nothing and she was plummeting downwards. Her fall came to a sudden stop when she crashed into something, the impact jarring enough to rattle her teeth. It was hard and smelled like soap. Soap?

"Cordy! I've got you."

Opening one eye, she looked around to see the rest of the gang seated on an odd assortment of chairs and sofas. Angel was holding her firmly beneath the hole in the ceiling she had fallen from. "What the hell is going on here?"

"We're not sure." Angel set her gently on her feet. "What happened?"

"I was on the phone and these idiots with guns put me in a cage. A cage! Can you believe it? When I get out of here I am filing one serious complaint." She checked herself for injuries, noting several spots that would be bruised in the morning and claimed one of the remaining armchairs. "How about you?"

"Stun gun." Gunn was holding his head, looking hung over and pissed off.

"Same here." Gwen had an ice pack against her temple. "At least they're accommodating."

"Count yourself lucky, sweet pea," Lorne muttered from the corner. "Those beauties pack a wallop."

"We need to figure out how to get out," Angel commented over his shoulder. He was searching the walls of the room methodically.

Wesley appeared from behind one of the sofas. "The air ducts are too small to be useful and the floor is seamless concrete underneath." He pushed the sofa back against the wall and moved around the perimeter in the opposite direction as Angel.

"Standard containment procedure apparently." Cordelia sighed and decided to lend a hand.

It was a basic living area with a bookshelf filled with paperbacks and magazines. The open space was spotted with tables and the myriad chairs. A couple of the sofas looked like they might fold out into hide-a-beds and she found a cupboard full of linens. Behind one door there was a small bathroom stocked with various shampoos and soaps. Further down the wall, a panel slid open to reveal a kitchenette. Frowning, she continued knocking against the panels for any sign of weakness.

"Why not just kill us?" Fred was going through the books. "I mean, why put us in a room with food? There's even blood in the fridge so Angel won't have to eat us."

"They must need to keep us alive." Wesley glanced at Cordelia. "You said something about standard containment procedure?"

"That's what the Neanderthals with the firearms told me."

"Interesting. I wasn't even aware of a standard procedure, Wolfram and Hart doesn't usually contain their victims."

"This room is new," Angel added with a sniff. "Fresh paint, new carpet. It hasn't been here long."

"So they don't want to kill us. Yet. There must be some reason we're stuck here."

Cordelia remembered suddenly. "The Senior Partners wanted Lilah to get rid of Cara so she told all the vampires that once the three Slayers were gone there wouldn't be any more. You know, that whole killing off of the Slayer line part?" She could feel all eyes turn to her. "Hey! That's what I was on the phone telling you people. Except you were here in the basement apartment from Hell."

"How do you know?" Wesley stopped hunting for a way out and picked up the reference key that she'd dropped when she'd fallen from the ceiling. "What is this?"

"I was chatting with Files and Records, trying to figure out what Lilah was talking about. You should go down there, Wes, that woman or thing or whatever she is, she knows everything about Wolfram and Hart." Abandoning the kitchenette, she sat down next to Wesley. "That's a reference key. Sort of like a tour guide for the files. I had her get me one with all the references to Shanshu. Oh, and I found out stuff." Her notebook was a little worse for wear, pages bent and ripped from the tumble down the chute. "Lilah? Not fired, transferred. And I think she expected us to find out about Cara though because her report to the Senior Partners sounded like it was meant for you."

"Guess she figured Wesley would be the one to find it." Fred was sorting through the magazines nervously. "Probably a trigger."

Wesley nodded as he flipped through the reference key. "She probably left orders that once the report was found, we were to be brought here."

"But how?" Gunn shifted on the sofa and rubbed his head. "I mean, Angel's the big guy around here. Wouldn't the orders have to come from him?"

"Not if the Senior Partners authorized it."

"No offense, Angel." Cordelia swiveled around to watch him search the far corner. "But I think you're more like a figurehead than a real boss. There were files that I couldn't get to. Restricted files that only Lilah had access to. About Connor." She saw him pause briefly, almost turn around, and then continue his careful examination of the room.

"Maybe this whole thing's been a set up from the beginning," Gunn offered.

"I could've told you that much." Gwen sighed behind her ice pack. "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

"But they offered us the office for getting rid of Jasmine. Ending world peace." Fred finished the last bookshelf. "No secret passages here. I remember, it was because they figured we'd done a better job than they had. The Senior Partners were moving out, right? I mean, that's what I thought. Leaving Los Angeles to us."

"And who told us that?" Angel finally turned around, expression hardened with determination. "Lilah. Who isn't what we thought she was. She's the one who told us that Cara knew something about the Shanshu and when Cordelia went looking, she triggered whatever this is to keep us from warning the Slayers. It's been a game from the very beginning."

"But why?"

"That's the question that none of us have been asking." Angel paced across the room. "We believed her. We believed them. We believed everything."

Fred shook her head. "We were cautious; we checked out the angles. It's not like we went into this blindly, I mean, we were expecting the worse."

"For the first year or so, maybe. But after that?" He shook his head with frustration. "We forgot who we were dealing with."

"Okay," Cordelia began calmly. "Let's think through this rationally and logically. The Senior Partners are obviously not as AWOL as we thought they were. Lilah's been getting orders from them and they're probably behind this containment deal. Again, probably because the whole vampire world knows that if they can bump of three Slayers they're home free forever."

"And there's still the Shanshu. Do you think Lilah was lying about that too?" Anxious for something to do, Fred went back to organizing the bookshelves.

"Perhaps," Wesley admitted. "Although I wasn't aware that they knew anything we didn't. The apocalypse would come, Angel would play a major part, fulfill his destiny and gain his reward."

Angel finally sat down, staring at his hands. "There is no Shanshu."

"What are you talking about?"

"The apocalypse came and I played my part. We played our parts."

Cordelia frowned. "Then why aren't you all with the breathing and sunbathing?"

"Because we were on the wrong side." His face was expressionless when he looked up at the group. "Jasmine told me she was a Power. One of the Powers That Be and she came here to save us."

"I'm not sure we can believe that either," Wesley said gently.

"She had nothing left, Wes. People don't lie when there's no reason to."

"Lilah did," Cordelia pointed out. "She didn't get fired, just transferred to a different office. And she probably just mentioned Shanshu to get us to find that trigger thingy."

"She didn't say she got fired, Cordy, just that she was leaving." Angel shook his head. "I don't think she was lying."

"Then the part about you must be true."

He leaned against the back of the sofa. "I think that she knew the truth about Jasmine. All she could have told us was what I could have done and didn't."

"Then, this whole time." Gunn tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. "You've known it was a done deal and you didn't say anything. We've been fighting and kicking demon ass so that you could get this reward and it's never gonna happen."

"That can't be true," Fred protested fervently. "It just can't. The Powers wouldn't leave you hanging like that, would they?"

"Hate to rain on your pity parade, Angel cakes." Lorne finally straightened up. "But there's no reason to keep you around if you've already played your hand. Even if you're right and we were supposed to get in line at the Jasmine All-You-Can-Eat Buffet, why would the Senior Partners make with the grand charade?"

No one knew the answer; each of them stared at hands and feet silently as they faced a horde of unanswered questions and the daunting possibility that what they had been doing for the last seven years had all been for nothing.

Angel finally broke the silence. "None of that matters any more. All that matters now is getting out of here and warning the Slayers. We have to get to Sunnydale."


	42. Boomerang

**Boomerang**

It wasn't unusual for the team members to keep totems of their kills, souvenirs even, and Garrett wasn't sure why he noticed hers. For the last two months, he had wondered what she was doing when she came back from a raid and whittled carefully at the slender rod.

Maybe he wondered because he spent his every waking moment with one eye on the Slayer; a wounded rabbit keeping the murderous hawk in sight just in case it came back to finish the job. He was out of traction, but still unable to join the raiding parties because of his knee injury and the pins in his jaw had become the kind of guests who never leave. It was better to be up and moving instead of flat on his back and the very fact that he was alive was enough to distinguish him from the rest of what had been the Genesis team. When he'd requested to head back into the field, back to the hunting and traveling that he enjoyed, it had served the dual purpose of getting him as far away as possible from Sunnydale and from the woman who made Black Widow spiders look like Mother Teresa.

Just his luck that she'd be there when he arrived.

No one talked to her, no one approached her. Through the hushed conversations when she was too far away to hear, he learned that the team had lashed out when she'd first arrived. Delving into their childhoods, the men had pulled every cruel prank they could think of. They emptied food packets and refilled them with mud; they doused her bunk in icy water, collected poisonous spiders to fill her boots, and had generally made her life a miserable Hell. All to no avail. Nothing seemed to crack her inhuman control and she was no closer to going back to whatever nightmare she had come from. The pranks stopped when Dan Harker had thrown a particularly nasty snake onto her legs while they thought she was sleeping. Without a moment's hesitation and eyes still closed, she ripped the snake's head off with her bare hands. They watched her cook and eat the rest of the carcass the following morning.

Wary eyes and plenty of room to maneuver were the only things they sent her direction now. The Slayer didn't seem to mind; her voice was hard and quietly firm when she was addressed. Brown eyes looked through them, past them, over their heads and shoulders into a world they didn't see. He was relegated to the bench until the doctor gave the green light. That mean he was stuck with running communications and making sure the supplies were ordered and on their way. While the rest were out on raids, he stayed behind with the research crew as they examined and recorded data about demon anatomy and effective killing techniques. If they needed him, he was ready with a willing hand to help carve into carcasses or put down information into hard copies to be sent back to Genesis.

Vampires were the only entrée on the menu that night, which left Garrett and the research crews with time on their hands as they waiting for the hunting party to return. A Master and his minions had set themselves up as gods, ruling over the surrounding villages on the outskirts of the rainforest and demanding blood sacrifices. It was pathetic and old-fashioned as far as nefarious plots went, but there were enough of them to warrant a hit squad. The fact that a Vampire Slayer was part of the team was slow getting out among the demon underground. For some reason, none of the demons believed she was a Slayer right up until the moment she sliced through their incredulous necks and left heads or dust falling around those miles of legs. Slayers weren't supposed to have that _look_; the light in their eyes that meant they got off on the killing, and they were supposed to stay on the Hellmouth. Tactically, it gave her the edge of surprise the team often needed. Garrett wasn't about to thank her.

Easing down onto the cot, he lifted up the narrow pillow and, with a cautious glance toward the flap of the tent, he fished out the long, smooth reed she kept. Some of the men had groused about her sleeping in the same tent as the rest of the team. They'd offered as many excuses as they could think of to get her out and away from them. One by one, the excuses were shot down and it was amazing how little their lives had changed. It was easy to forget she was even there when she kept to herself and did her job without a word.

Down the left side of the thick reed where a series of evenly spaced and neatly carved wedges spanned the length. On the flip-side were sharper, narrowly spaced cuts clustered at one end as though she'd changed her marking system halfway through. There weren't enough markings to signify her kills. The Slayer was a machine. She'd begrudging earned the acknowledgment from the men that, all murderous tendencies aside, she kicked demon ass in ways they could only imagine. Maybe she only kept track of vampires or new demons she hadn't fought before. Again, he wasn't sure why he cared or why he was sitting on the scrap of canvas she used for a bed and staring down at the reed, trying to decipher its secrets.

In Sunnydale, before she had put him out of the action completely for four tortuous months, he'd felt sorry for her, for what the dead General had planned. That was before he'd woken up in the hospital surrounded by his friends and fellow soldiers, each wrapped in their own bandages with another horror story to tell about what they had seen, survived, and about those who hadn't. He heard that she'd gone straight to the top and gutted the General with one of the standard issue blades that she'd taken off of a dead body. For some reason beyond the comprehension of the survivors, the order had come down from the highest levels of authority that she was to be offered a place in one of the elite groups of men and women who sought out and brought down the demons who crossed the line to threaten humanity.

And here she was. Working and fighting along side friends and brothers of the very men she had butchered. If he thought about it too long, his hands started to shake and he couldn't focus on anything but the sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach that would eventually creep up his throat, cutting off air and voice. There weren't exact words for the way she made him feel.

Dirty.

Maybe it was survivor's guilt. Maybe it was because he could have shot her when she'd taken out Tango. If he had shot her, screw the orders to keep their distance; if he'd just taken her down there in that hallway he could have saved the rest of them. He'd let his sympathy get in the way and it had cost fifty-three men their lives. Men with wives and families waiting for them. What did she have? Nothing. She should have been the one to die. There wasn't a snowflake's chance in hell that he could remedy that now. She was too fast, too ready. The world was out to get her and she fucking knew it; she was waiting for the slightest attack like a diamondback curled and rattling. All he wanted to know was why she hadn't killed them all.

Why hadn't she killed him?

The answer was obvious, of course, even if he was doing his best Stevie Wonder in an attempt to escape the consequences. She didn't kill humans arbitrarily, only the ones who were trying to hurt her or pissed her off. Like any other person on the planet would have, she'd fought in self-defense, even if the results had been closer to an all out massacre. He wasn't dead because she'd chosen to spare him, chosen to let him live because he hadn't threatened her, hadn't opened fire or tried to kill her. His own inaction, the failure to pull the trigger that had cost the others their lives, had been his saving grace. Reality was bitter ash in the back of his mouth, coating and burning his lungs as it swallowed up any attempt at words.

Forty-five. Forty-six. He counted the notches because it kept his mind focused on something else, on the sequence of numbers that belonged in the safe and rational world. Forty-nine, fifty. What did they mean? What was she keeping track of? Fingers halted over the last notch as he repeated the final count silently. Fifty-three. One for each of the lives she had taken. The invisible ash redoubled its malevolent efforts to choke him as he blinked rapidly, refusing to believe that she could even consider treating human life as a trophy. What were the other notches for? The number of men she wanted to kill?

His hands were already shaking violently when he noticed the boots standing just at the edge of his vision and looked up into the curious face of the youngest recruit in the squad. He was a sort of Ichabod Crane with watery blue eyes and a tendency to blink when he was trying to make sense of the world around him. Blake Harrison was also one of the foremost demonologists the military had who was also willing to get within a stone's throw of real combat. To Harrison, a Slayer was just another creature to categorize and study, falling somewhere before Succubus and after Siren in the book of female serial killers. He was the only member of the team that Garrett could remember speaking to the Slayer; he'd bombarded her with questions about where Slayers came from and what it was like to be one.

"Probably a good idea to leave that where you found it, mate." Blake nodded toward the stick, his Australian accent unnaturally prominent in the silence. "Don't reckon she'd take to it disappearing."

"Yeah. She might break more than my jaw this time," Garrett snapped as he stuffed it back under the pillow. "I'm well aware of what she's capable of."

"Fifty-three."

"One for each body she left behind." His knee ached as he got back to his feet and started out of the tent.

"Want to know what the rest are for?"

He almost kept going, almost walked out of the tent without stopping; he told himself that it didn't fucking matter why the Slayer cut notches into a bit of wood and he didn't care even if it did. Instead, he hesitated, torn by curiosity and the slightly goading tone in Blake's voice. The _I Know Something You Don't_ taunting that hung in the air between them. Rather than answering, he remained still and stubbornly kept his back to the demonologist.

"Those are the lives she's saved since she got here."

"As if it matters?" Angry now, Garrett glared back over his shoulder. "As if it changes what she did, as if it makes up for all of those deaths. She can't, not ever. No way in Hell will there ever be a way for her to make it right."

Blake fished his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. "What would you rather she do?"

"I don't fucking care what she does."

"You know she's going to die." He settled onto his bunk, still watching Garrett carefully. "All this? Fighting vamps and demons, it's bloody exciting for you. For her, it's life. There is no other option. You can go home, raise a few ankle biters, and all she has to look forward to is the next fight, until she finally gets to that last one. The one she doesn't walk away from."

"Are you trying to make me feel sorry for her? It's not going to work." Not when he'd have the permanent ache of metal in his jaw and the fact that he may never join the active team again weighing him down.

"I'm telling you to ease off." Unusually firm, Blake raised his gaze in a direct challenge. "Walk a mile in her shoes and see how it feels."

Garrett snorted disdainfully. "Think I should kill a few people too? Get perspective?"

"Do you know how they made the first Slayer?" Blake casually switched the subject, his eyes never looking away. "Magicians, shamans, took a girl and chained her to the ground so she couldn't run, in the middle of the desert where no one would hear her scream. And they forced the soul of a demon into her body. Powerful magic, black as it gets."

"And your point?"

"Ever been addicted to something? Something powerful."

"No. Why?"

"Then you'll never understand what it is to be a Slayer." The demonologist smiled as he rolled up a sleeve, showing the scars of needle tracks marring the skin inside his elbow. "What it feels like to fight against yourself every second of every day and hate the part of you that can't say no. The part that makes them strong, that makes them the Slayer, that's the demon part and it's just as dark and evil as anything they kill. What do you think keeps them human?" He paused, waiting for an answer that wasn't coming. "Friends. Family. Everything they took away from her. They thought they were helping, but all they did was bring the Slayer closer to the surface. A few thousand years of rage are trapped inside that body. A war that she fights every waking moment. You can hate her, you can fear her, but get one thing straight. The world she lives, the battles she fights, are nothing like what you have ever known or will ever know. She hurt you and you're angry about it, but don't ever judge her."

"You weren't there," Garrett choked out bitterly, pain shooting through his clenched jaw.

"I've been here. While the rest of you have been cowering in fear or acting like a bunch of bloody teenagers, I've been watching her and I've seen what you haven't. We're the ones sticking our noses in someone else's business. Get over it."

Incredulous and furious, he stormed from the tent, unwilling to spend another second listening to the bullshit coming out the demonologist's mouth. Who cared? If she was part demon then she should be hunted down and killed like every other demon. Simple, easy.

Grinding his teeth, he took a seat in the research tent and starting working on the paperwork that would need to be filled out when the team returned. He tried to take his mind off of the conversation with Harrison; he didn't need someone telling him it was okay to hate her because he couldn't imagine feeling anything else.

Beyond the paperwork, the usual assortment of first aid supplies needed to be set out on the long table where the team would disarm, shedding protective armor and weaponry before they ate breakfast. The Slayer would be last, trailing the rest of the men and retreating to the far side of the clearing where a pile of logs and crumbling rocks hid her from view. Tucked in her hollow of wood and stone, she always took care of her own wounds and could almost be forgotten until she crept into the tent where the rest of the team was getting some hard-earned rest. He knew every step of her routine.

"Shouldn't they be back by now?" One of the researchers yawned, fiddling with his lantern as he punched data into a laptop. "Just vampires. They're usually don't take this long."

"Probably had to hunt down the bastards one by one," Garrett answer. He took his time stacking each of the folders neatly into piles for the debriefing session.

"Why do we have to do so much goddamn paperwork?" Another younger man, barely out of boot camp, cracked his back and blearily eyed the forest walls around them. "What the hell?"

Garrett looked up in time to see half of the team stumble out of the forest in a chaotic vortex of shouting and blood. Bolting from the table as quickly as his knee would allow, he shouted for the medics as he hurried toward the group. Several were holding crimson stained patches of cotton against their necks. Strips of jackets and t-shirts had been used to bandage cuts on arms and legs, each man holding onto another as they collapsed onto the softer ground.

"What happened?" Garrett took an arm of one of the injured men. "Saunders? What happened?"

He winced as he eased onto the ground, clutching a gaping wound in his thigh. "Ambush. Fucking vampires knew we were coming."

"Who's missing?"

"Jax and Peterson bought it."

"Lee and Scipio too." Another soldier slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle. "Campbell took a sword through the chest. Don't know what happened to him." Those who could still hold weapons were watching the edge of the clearing with tightly controlled fear. Even the researchers were handed rifles and positioned in a protective half moon around the wounded.

Garrett took Saunders' rifle and checked the rounds quickly before falling into position, praying his knee wouldn't give out if it came down to a fight. "Do you think they followed?"

"Left a pretty good trail for them." Captain Remmick wiped his hands on his uniform, spreading blood over the dark fabric. "Don't know if the Slayer made it, they seemed pretty intent on getting to her." There was a heavy pause as they all held their breath and waited. In the distance, the sound of snapping branches and animalistic growling ebbed out of the forest, growing like the tide as it closed the distance between them and death.

"They knew she was a Slayer?" Garrett whispered softly.

"Somehow," Remmick replied grimly. "Somehow they knew. Didn't seem scared either."

At the edge of the clearing the trees seemed to bubble out toward them, leaves waving in a trim of tattered lace as the belle of the ball danced through the eerie shadows with growling, snapping charms on her heels. Unconsciously, the men began to ease backwards, knowing that when the vampires burst through the last obscuring line of foliage, all the distance in the world wouldn't save them, but a little more couldn't hurt. For a moment the ripples in the branches seemed to pause, sucking in toward the dark and gathering momentum for their final crashing dance as they birthed the demons into the clearing. It happened too quickly to think. Nerves burned tracks down fingers and arms, drowning out the sounds of the vampires in the hail of gunfire. Wooden core bullets tore through flesh and bone, spilling dust as they found their mark and rendering useless the unlucky ones with hearts still intact.

"Hold your fire!" Captain Remmick shouted into the blazing hailstorm of metal and wood. It petered out, a popcorn machine finished with all but the last kernels stubbornly refusing to blossom. "Stay in control! Quick bursts, aim for the heart." The trees were still waving their ragged lace and the forest was screeching with the abominations creeping through its underbrush.

"Wait!" Garrett felt the word rip from his mouth as three more vampires broke through the bushes and stumbled into the clearing. Surprisingly, the group held their fire, fingers twitching against the irresistible impulse to pull back against the trigger. There was something different about the last vampires. They looked ragged and frightened. Not pursuing. Pursued.

She came from the trees, launching out of the branches and catching the two slower vampires. They were dragged to the ground with the force of her weight hitting their backs. The third made the mistake of looking back and tripped over a rock, tumbling onto the ground into the range of the Marines. Garrett watched as the Slayer wrapped her legs around one of the remaining vampires, using him for a shield as she rolled onto her back and slammed his body into the other vamp. He burst into dust as she rammed a stake through his chest and the last vamp found himself on his back, facing a stake-bearing Slayer.

"How many know?" she snarled, accenting the demand by slamming his head into the earth. "Tell me how many."

The vampire screeching with pain as she punched the stake into his shoulder. "I don't know."

"Tell me."

"Fuck you."

The Slayer drove the stake into the ground next to his head and reached for her belt. She spun the dagger through her fingers with a terrifying smile on her face and it glittered in the moonlight before she planted it in the vampire's midsection. He howled and writhed against her, blood splattering up over her arms and face as she carved into his abdomen.

"You'll be begging me to kill you in less than a minute." Her voice was hard and sharp, the only response was a strangled growl. She twisted the blade down toward his hip and kept cutting. Garrett nearly lost his dinner as she abandoned the knife and reached into the gaping hole with her bare hand, tearing and twisting the organs inside.

"Tell me who knows," she demanded fiercely, covered in the dark blood of the sobbing vampire. "Tell me!"

"Everyone!" He finally shouted. His voice was thick with pain. "Everyone knows."

For a moment, Garrett wondered if she was going to keep torturing the creature just because she enjoyed it. In one swift movement, she retrieved the stake and plunged it into his heart. There was nothing but silence as they watched the dust settle onto the ground. She slowly got to her feet and tucked the stake back into the loop on her belt. Fatigue lined her face as dark eyes swept over the group, blood oozing from her own wounds and the spray from her victims.

The Captain broke the uneasy tension. "Slayer?"

"They know." She was still gripping the dagger tightly, hesitating, visibly torn between answering and remaining silent. "They know there are only three Slayers left."

"What does that mean?"

For a long moment she didn't say anything, just looked up into the sky. Finally her brown eyes swung back to group and Garrett was sure he saw some intimation of emotion in them. "It means they're coming after us."

No one moved to help or catch her when she swayed, knees buckling before she hit the ground.

* * *

It was a test drive. Faith was just seeing if it got in the way of slaying and fighting because if it did then she would have a good reason to say no instead of admitting that she was terrified beyond all reason. Her pretty little world had gone Tim Burton over night and left her waiting for the reflection in the mirror to start hurling insults. She was just wearing the ring for a few hours before she tucked it back into its velvet shell and shook the sugarplum fairies from her head. She knew better. There were no happily ever afters, there was no riding into the sunset, there was just now and today.

And there would be no more days of carefree sex with Spike either.

It wasn't possible, couldn't be possible. She'd been careful. Somewhere, Truth was laughing at her. She'd been careful with Frye, not with Spike.

Spike, who was warm and human and no longer a vampire.

Possible or not, there it was. At least, that's what the girl in blue scrubs with the dark skin and almond eyes had told her cheerfully before instructing her to wait in the sitting area. Wait and stare at the magazines or watch the World War II documentary playing on the television. That didn't seem real either. Grainy footage of bombers and pilots, men dying and surviving as the narrator droned on with names and places. Events that had taken place long before she was born, that set in motion what the world would be today. History was a dance, the choreography seen only in hindsight and its whirlwind pace deceptively lazy. If she could look back and pinpoint the exact moments that had led her to this here and now, would it seem like random links in a chaotic chain or would she find a pattern? A method in the madness.

Hiding under her bed when she knew Shane was coming over, sneaking out the window and trying to stay away from his reaching hands. The helplessness when he finally caught her and the feeling of power when she'd thrown him across the room, when she'd known that she'd never be helpless again. Hitting the streets for the first time, trembling with fear and excitement. Meeting her first Watcher. Isobelle. God, had she even been able to say her name since Kakistos had ripped her apart? Those were the moments that would live in infamy. Stamped, branded, permanently scorched into her brain with all the pain and fury she had ever felt. Realizing that Angel and Buffy had played her, waking up in the Sunnydale hospital after eight months in a coma, torturing Wesley, going to jail.

It was a big blur for three years until Wesley showed up looking like a Marlboro commercial and telling her that Angelus was back again. Someone ought to get better glue for that soul. The Beast, seven or eight feet of solid rock who'd cracked ribs and reminded her of Shane. The same sick, helpless feeling soaking through clear up to the roots of her hair before Angelus stabbed the bastard in the back. Doing the time warp with both Angel and Angelus, the first time she'd truly realized that they weren't the same person. When she'd understood the magnitude of a vampire with a soul.

Then there was the battle with the First. Robin Wood. He'd made it through the Bringer and Uber-vamp slice n'dice brigade, wounded but glad to be alive and sense of humor still intact. She hadn't kept track of him; she'd gone back to jail like a good little girl and forgotten all about that. He was probably dead now, Slayer genes. If his private war against the undead hadn't already claimed him as a casualty. All the potentials were gone too, wiped out as if they had never existed.

The day she'd stepped out of jail for real instead of busting out, dressed in the dusty clothes she'd worn into the same building six years earlier, and found Buffy waiting outside. Choking on saltwater as it poured down her mouth and nose, Spike's hands around her throat. The sound of his voice asking her to save him. New Orleans. Ethan Rayne joined the Nightmare Hall of Fame when he had sliced into her face, chained her wrists and taught her the fine art of using a whip. Blood soaked and pain filled memories glazed over by time but never actually gone.

Watching Spike turn to dust. Then seeing him alive, surrounded by fire and almost buried under the smoke. Coming home from the hospital and pouring every bit of alcohol in the apartment down the drain, knowing that she had nearly lost him because of it. By Faith's standards, life had been pretty blissful since then. No cell, no bars, no one trying to cut her into pieces, and enough demons to make patrol interesting.

"Faith Hawkins?" The almond-eyed girl smiled over the counter and slid a clipboard toward Faith. "Fill these out please."

Her hands were shaking. She hadn't noticed until she tried to hold the pen steady enough to write. Add another moment to the list. Finding out she was pregnant.

Pregnant. Knocked up, expecting, bun in the oven, with child, gonna be a mommy. She was still reeling, teetering on the edge of blind panic and waiting for the shoe to drop and send her toppling into the abyss. So she'd gained a little weight, it was weight she'd lost after Spike's death anyway. Some nausea but no more than she had gotten used to dealing with every day. Mood swings. Looking back, it was all there in a tidy pattern just waiting for her to see it. Last menstrual period? Before she found Spike. A week, two weeks? Numbly, she put the clipboard down and tried to catch the girl's attention.

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure…I mean, I don't usually keep track of it. I can give you a ballpark, give or take a week."

"It's alright. Just give us a good guess. We'll do a blood test and an ultrasound to determine how far along you are."

It sounded like some sort of code or language she didn't understand, but she nodded and moved back to the hated clipboard with its impossible questions. So this was how it felt to be pregnant. Not that different. Hungry, tired. She'd been pretty tired for a few weeks, sleeping in late and attributing it to patrol or sex. Maybe coming down with the flu, just a little run down. All excuses for the pattern she hadn't seen. Had Spike noticed something?

Her heart skipped a beat and she had to stop writing long enough to let the shivering subside. Maybe he had noticed the signs when she hadn't. Maybe that was why he'd asked her to marry him. Make an honest woman out of her. The ring shone cheerfully on her finger, but she blinked at it without seeing. She wanted to believe that it was because he loved her. He'd said it, that night on the beach when the world had still made sense. She wanted to believe it more than she had ever wanted anything. More than a father, more than a mother who loved her, more than a puppy. Wanted to believe that he actually loved her. Her. Faith. Wild, crazy, fucked up Faith who'd done jail time for murder, who could keep a good plastic surgeon in business if she ever decided to get rid of the scars.

She wanted to believe that he really wanted to marry her even though there was no way she'd be a good wife. No way in Hell. She'd have better odds at being crowned Queen of fucking England. A wife? She didn't even know what a wife was supposed to do. Cook, clean, something like that.

He couldn't know. If she hadn't noticed then he couldn't have noticed. Frowning, she glanced down at her breasts. Bigger but not by too much, just beginning to tug at the seams of her bra. Maybe he hadn't noticed. Time to be optimistic and pray he hadn't.

She signed on the dotted line and pushed the clipboard back across the counter for Smiley Girl, returning to her seat to finish the war documentary without actually caring what was flashing across the screen. Her brain was struggling under the weight of the realization that she was no longer alone in her own body, that there was something growing inside her like a cancer eating away at her energy and her sanity.

A second woman glanced up from her clipboard as she entered the sitting area. "Faith?"

"Here." Faith got to her feet quickly, heart pounding too loudly.

"This way, please." Pale blue scrubs whispered as she walked, keys jangling and unlocking a series of doors. "Let me explain what's going to happen. First, we just need to draw some blood. Then one of our counselors will go over what the procedure entails and what your options are. Once you talk with the counselor and fill out the consent forms, you're ready for the procedure. If you need time to think about it, you can come back any time this week."

Faith nodded mutely, unable to do anything but follow basic instructions to sit and hold out her arm. The needle was hypnotic as it sunk into her skin, drawing blood through the thin silver tip. So much trouble for such a little thing. Blood. The genes that made her eyes and hair brown, that made her a Slayer. So much pain all over a little bit of blood. Cotton pressed against her elbow, she relaxed her fingers and watched the color flow back into her hand. More scrubs to follow into a softly lit room with comfy chairs and a rainbow of pamphlets. More forms to fill out.

"It's a lot of paperwork." This time it was an older woman with pepper gray hair and a cherub's face. "We just need to make sure that you understand what's going to happen and that you're here of your own free will." The woman's eyes rested on Faith's ring finger for just a moment in an unspoken question.

She signed with trembling fingers.

"Now that's out of the way." Gentle smiles from the angelic lady as she organized the papers. "I just need to outline the options for you and then you'll be on your way. If you're in your first trimester, the procedure itself will take about five minutes and you should be in the clinic for a little over two hours. We can give you local anesthesia or an IV. If you're worried, we can even put you under completely. It's usually not that painful but some women find that the drugs help. Once the procedure is done, we like to keep you for at least an hour to make sure that everything's gone well and that the anesthesia has worn off completely before you leave. If you need someone to pick you up, there's a phone available in the waiting room." The chair creaked as the woman leaned forward. "The procedure itself is called a medical abortion. You've probably heard it referred to as a surgical abortion but that's misleading. There isn't any actual surgery involved in first trimester abortions any longer but the name still pops up every now and then. If you get the local anesthesia, the doctor will numb your cervix before inserting the tube. Essentially, it acts as a vacuum, removing the sac and the lining of the uterus. Most likely, there will be about twenty seconds of cramping and maybe some dull aching afterwards but that will be the extent of the pain. If your pregnancy is ectopic or if you're into your second trimester, then there are just a few changes that need to be made. Typically, second trimester abortions are bit more involved. Do you have any questions so far?"

Faith just wanted the day to be over.

* * *

Maybe no one had told the Slayer that her cell phone did more than make phone calls. Frye couldn't think of another reason why she hadn't turned it off or left it home. She must not know. Then again, he figured that he should have been the one to tell her and, although he couldn't think of a good reason why he hadn't, there was a small guilty voice whispering that forgetfulness was too convenient. It was his job to help the Slayer and he had to know where she was at all times if he was expected to do his best. There were perks. He was pretty sure he knew something the whole demon world would have given a great deal to know, the United States government a great deal more, and the Watcher's Council would have sold their souls. All that mattered was the one demon who didn't know.

The dot blinked on his computer screen as he thoughtfully considered the options. There was the slim possibility that Spike knew. Frye dismissed it; the possessive vibe that emanated from the detective was too strong to believe that he would condone or support Faith's decision. Even if it only served to secure his position with the Slayer, the former vampire or whatever he was, would be more likely to want the baby. That gave Frye an interesting opportunity.

A little surprised that he wasn't nervous, he clicked on his headset and found the number for Faith's apartment phone. Of course, she wasn't home. She was sitting in an abortion clinic. It took four rings before an all too familiar male voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Spike? Is Faith there?"

"No. There's a note, says she's in a meeting."

Clever girl. That confirmed his suspicion that Spike didn't know about the baby. "She's supposed to be," Frye lied smoothly. "We've been waiting for an hour. She's not here and there's no answer when I call her cell."

"Maybe she's stuck in traffic." Some of the usual arrogance had left the detective's voice.

"I've run through all the main routes and they're clear. Don't suppose you could check in and see if she's gotten into a wreck or something? You know how she likes to speed."

"No problem, let me grab my cell."

Frye ignored the background noise as Spike called in to the Boston Police. The little red dot blinked from the screen. From a cozy sitting room or wherever her jacket was. Maybe draped over a chair while she waited. His pulse was picking up, body temperature rising and chemistry changing. All signs of the lie he was weaving. None of it would travel over the phone lines.

"Nothing so far. She's probably out shopping. You know women." Spike's tone was deliberately light.

"Or not." Frye changed his voice to drip with serious concern. "Patrol's been dicey the last few nights. A handful of factions are getting into power struggles now that the Master's gone and they're starting to think about moving into his old territory."

The truth was that Faith had left Spike at home working on police cases because the two of them on patrol was serious overkill. There wouldn't be any demons left on the eastern seaboard at the rate they ripped through the underground. Another gamble. There was a moment of tense silence while he waited to see if Spike had taken the bait.

"Her phone's not here so she must have it with her. Can't you trace it?" Bingo.

"If she's still got it on. Let me check." He counted silently to twenty-five. It was the twice the amount of time he actually needed to actually track a cell phone, but it would be enough for Spike. Funny how time seemed to stretch into eternity when a loved one could be in danger. "I've got it up on satellite right now, it'll take me a minute or two to narrow it down."

"Keep talking," Spike ordered sharply and Frye could hear the sound of a door slamming. "I'm headed out now."

"Right. Grab 128 South and head toward Newton." He had to give the man some credit. There was no sitting around, no waiting for details or backup when Faith was involved. He'd probably travel the globe and tear the city apart if he thought it was necessary. A car engine roared in the background and Frye sat back patiently as another dot blinked to life on the screen and started to make its way through the maze of streets on the screen. Getting a degree from MIT meant learning how to cross the T's and dot the I's. The dot pulled onto the highway a little too fast and the temptation was too great to resist.

"You know I can't stand you," Frye commented acidly.

"Feeling's mutual." Spike's response was terse, muffled by the engine.

"I don't know what you are, but I've got a pretty idea who you are. William the Bloody ring any bells?" He was hoping for carelessness; an offhand comment that would support his theories.

"Why don't we save this for later? Kill each other like civilized people once she's back home safe and sound."

"You don't deserve her."

"And you do?" Spike scoffed condescendingly. "You never had her, mate. And you can bloody tell her all the stories you want about my past, it's no secret."

"So I've heard." It was impossible to keep the bitterness out of his voice even as he tried to focus on what he was hearing.

"That's what hurts the most, isn't it?"

"Make a left for Harvard Street. Should be five miles from where you are now." There was a long pause as the realization that Frye was tracking Spike as well sunk it. Hopefully, it would goad him into a more concrete admission.

"What hurts isn't knowing that you can't have her or that I'm the one inside her, making her scream. It's that she doesn't care. Not for one fucking second does it matter to her that I was a vampire. Soulless, evil killer for more than a goddamn century and she doesn't care. Not when I'm touching her and not when she needs someone she can trust at her back. That's what eats you up inside."

Frye didn't answer. He didn't need to. The smug bastard was setting up his own rope to hang with and Frye was just sorry he wouldn't be there to see the expression on his face when he realized where Faith was. If the Watcher's Council believed that Faith had killed William the Bloody when he was actually in Boston pretending to be a police office then she had lied to protect him. They had probably arranged to meet up in Boston after the commotion died down. The only part it didn't explain was why Faith had decided to spend those nights with in his bed before Spike had reappeared. More of her charade? More of her lies.

"Turn right at the intersection ahead. It's the north side, building number 258." Frye watched the dot blink around the corner and raised one finger to his headset, ready to cut the connection after he drove his point home. "And take a good look at how much she doesn't care."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"That building in front of you? It's an abortion clinic." Even triumph tasted bitter. Everything had tasted of ash since Spike had entered the picture. "Can't say that I blame her. Who knows what a freak like you would do to the Slayer line."

The connection blinked out and he hit the power button on his monitor with more force than he had intended. For several minutes, he stared at the blank screen and watched his fingers shake above the desk surface. Two more phone calls had to be made. Two more people had to know that William the Bloody was still walking the earth.

* * *

A thousand scenarios, each one more devastating than the last, had played through Spike's imagination before he managed to pull the car back into traffic and head home. Blind, numb, feeling as though he'd taken a fist to the gut. When the door shut behind him, shocked that he'd made it home without crashing or triggering a pile-up on the expressway, he wanted to crawl into a bottle of warm, comforting whiskey and just forget.

There was no alcohol in the entire apartment.

How long had she known? How long had she been keeping it from him? Finally, his lungs began screaming and he realized that he was holding his breath, waiting for the scene to change. Waiting for someone to tell him that it was impossible. She would have told him, he would have noticed. He'd been glad to see her put on a few pounds, fill out those curves he adored, and maybe she'd been a little moody but nothing spectacular. There was nothing. He searched his brain for some hint, some clue, that would make it all fit into a neatly organized picture.

Frowning, he realized that he hadn't seen anything but fruit juice and water in her hand since he'd gotten out of the hospital. If she'd been pregnant that long then it wasn't his. Not much in the way of consolation, but it took the sting out of Frye's bitter attack. Except that Frye had assumed it was Spike's and probably for a good reason. Any chance that could be gambled into a play for Faith was something to take advantage of. A child would give Birkman the leverage he needed to drive a wedge between them. That left one possibility. It settled over his shoulders like a weight of cold stone, worming icy fingers into his heart; it felt like lead and as black as the empty eyes of the Cheshire bitch who had given him his freedom in exchange for Faith's life.

She should have fucking told him.

It stung, left him whiplash raw and bleeding wounded pride. Good enough to share her bed, good enough to fuck, but not good enough for more than that. Not good enough to mix with Slayer blood, not good enough to be the father of her child. The cell phone still clutched tightly in his hand snapped and shattered as his grip tightened, spraying chunks of plastic over the floor of the apartment's entryway.

Women. Slayers. All the fucking same bullshit merry-go-round of abuse.

He had fought for her, raged for her, bled for her. Held her when there was nothing left to comfort her, had ended his own miserable life so that she could have one. Have a future, love and live. He had died so that she could have the very thing she had callously thrown away. Betrayal tightened a vise around his throat, driving him into the living area in search of something to vent his frustration on.

The room shouted proudly of Faith and familiarity. A painting from Willow, the dagger from Buffy, and the dark fleece from Xander and his bird. A stake was tucked into the magazine holder where she could grab it as she left the room and a pair of boots had been tossed onto the coffee table. There were newspapers stacked haphazardly as she scanned obituaries and neatly piled pages with articles that she had saved because they were about him. He wanted to hurt her for pretending to care, wanted her to explain why she hadn't found him fit to fill those shoes. Had found him lacking, not good enough. Again. The rest of him wanted to weep, to fall apart because he loved her. God, he loved her until he thought it would break him into pieces. But she didn't love him. How could she? How could she love him if she hadn't even told him? Had lied to him. The note laughed up at him from the couch cushion where he had left it, the meeting she hadn't bothered to attend.

He knew the drill, had the tune memorized and the taglines down word for word. Evil, disgusting thing. Soulless, vampire. Monster. He'd been a monster and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about his past now but it still came back to bite him in the ass. Still being judged for the past he could never atone for and Faith was not the exception he'd thought her to be.

The first impulse had been to crash through the sparkling glass windows of the building and drag her out of there. To put a fist or bullet through anyone who tried to stop him and maybe, just maybe, keep fighting even after he'd found her. Images painted themselves easily in his mind, leveling his rage against the duplicitous bitch he was in love with. The only way he knew how. His fists. But flashbacks of a dark alley in Sunnydale added a layer of despair to his anger. Was he doomed to violence and pain? Dish it out, take it in spades. Always a level of abuse seeping into his world and poisoning everything he held sacred. The nature of the beast; was his very nature still dark and violent? Was he still that monster?

Unable to move without fear of hurting Faith or innocent people, he'd turned the car away and come back to the home he'd known too briefly. Torn between anger and pain, wanting to hurt her, to hold her, to just collapse onto the ground and wait for the whole world to come crashing down around his head. He wanted to believe that a heartbeat meant he wasn't a monster, even knowing the horrors mankind was capable of. In a way, a stake through the heart had nearly rendered useless the lessons he had learned while frozen in death; that warm blood did not make a man good or guarantee humanity. That demon wasn't always synonymous with monster. With his past fully restored in all its Technicolor gore, he had fiercely denounced his human memories as lies and pushed them as far away as he possibly could.

Had that been a mistake?

Davis Williams was a good cop and a good man. Spike was a monster and a demon. An evil, disgusting thing. Maybe it didn't matter that the human memories weren't actually real.

Memories of gray sleeting rain and New Orleans filtered into his consciousness; of falling to his knees in the cemetery and begging whatever powers, whatever God, whatever anyone or anything that could give him a second chance. A chance to do it over and do it right. To be something other than darkness and death. Was Davis Williams that second chance? Were the warm and human memories that he had rejected his ultimate salvation? For three years he had played at being human, struggled to fit into and grab hold of the very world that had been handed to him silver platter style in the identity of a Boston homicide detective. All that time wondering and searching for a place to call home and a face, a name, a soul to call his own. Still asking whoever would listen, who is Spike?

Wearily easing his tired body into the armchair, he closed his eyes against the ceiling and searched his soul for the answers. He didn't even know if he had a soul. All these months, knowing and not knowing who or what he was, he'd never really faced down those nagging questions or doubts. Never challenged his own existence with the whys and hows because he'd been too afraid it would be snatched from him if he asked too many questions. As though the powers that had given him a second chance would change their minds if he questioned their motivations. Then he'd found Faith again and none of it had mattered. For the first time in a hundred and thirty years, he had been truly happy and believed that he was truly loved. Now he was just tired.

Tired of it all. Tired of the balancing act that was love and loss and trying again. Adrenaline faded away into his blood as his anger turned to sorrow, leaving aching muscles and bones, a heart tired of breaking and hands exhausted from holding on to the impossible. Slayers and vampires, even former vampires, weren't meant to fall in love. It was that simple. And he had asked for it not once, but twice. Asked for the pain of loss and begged for the hurt that came with being part of life itself.

The hardest thing in this world is to live in it.

It was either poetic justice or lyrical revenge. Who was he to tell her she was wrong? A man who had left hundreds of bodies in his wake and enough grief to fill the world two times over. What in his past gave him the right to judge her? He couldn't explain the empty feeling. The knowledge that she had been carrying a life inside of her that was part of him. In all his years, he had only spread death and the first time he had created something, breathed life into what would have been a child, it had been found unworthy. Unwanted. He couldn't judge her, couldn't second-guess her decision or her motives. All that was left for him was grief for something he had never known and would possibly never know. Just the pain and emptiness of loss, of what might have been.

He didn't know how long he sat there before he heard the front door open. Footsteps against the linoleum. The rustle of paper bags as they settled and shifted on the kitchen counter and then the silence as her eyes found him.

"Hey." One word. One word that seemed to hold the record for first words in their relationship.

He didn't open his eyes. "How was the meeting?"

Pause. "Same old, same old. You know, blah, blah, blah, go kill the bad guys."

Still lying. It didn't make him angry, it just hurt. At least he could hear the slightest tremor of unease in her voice when she answered. "Frye called."

"What did he want?" Every syllable was clear, her voice alert and wary now.

"Said you were late and not answering your cell."

"Late?" There was genuine confusion in her voice. "I was totally on time. That guy's a fucking Nazi."

"Faith." He was too tired to dance anymore. "Don't lie to me. Just don't."

"What are you talking about?" Steps moved toward him. He could feel her heat and power as she got closer. It was something that he had never felt as a vampire. The power inside her beaming out like a radiator burning cherry red. Did it mean something? Was it a clue to what he was that he hadn't picked up and followed?

"I've killed people, luv. More than I can count." That stopped her in her tracks. "And I ran for my high school track team."

"Huh?"

"Maybe they're both real." His thoughts were beginning to spin as memories began to seep through the barriers he had put up to keep the two worlds apart. Memories of sunlight and a mother who had loved him; Davis and William had that much in common, a good mother. There were other bits and pieces. The nickname Spike. The seductress who had been the vampire Drusilla in the real world and the eccentric artist named Daria that he'd been obsessed with during his junior year of high school. Both with dark hair and luminous eyes, never quite making sense or fitting into the world around them. Looking back, he could see the same patterns weaving through both lives. Each vampire scenario played out on a smaller scale among his human memories.

"Are you alright? Cause you're sounding a little on the crazy side." Warm fingers brushed the back of his hand.

"Maybe he's right. Geek bastard. Maybe I am a freak." He didn't know what he was. He felt the same, looked out through the same eyes, held her with the same arms. Everything that had defined him at the basest level was now gone. No more blood, no more sunlight issues. No William spouting poetry in the corner of his mind. Maybe he would have fucked up the Slayer line. Maybe adding his freak genes could have had catastrophic results in an already precarious situation.

"Spike?"

"I was there." His voice sounded raw and throaty. "Frye couldn't find you. He tracked your cell phone and told me where you were. I was there." There was nothing but silence and he finally opened his eyes to see her standing in front of him, arms folded protectively across her chest and face drawn into nervous lines.

Her voice held only the barest hint of hesitation. "I know what you think."

"Really? I'm thinking you don't know me at all."

"We don't have to fight about this."

Spike laughed bitterly. "What? You want to talk? Like normal people? Like a fucking married couple working out issues? We don't talk, Faith. It doesn't work that way."

"You're not a vampire anymore, Spike."

"Then you'll have to figure out a different way to kill me." He kept his hands tightly clenched on the arms of the chair as the familiar rage began to stir in the pit of his stomach. He was determined not to give in to the desire to hit her, not to let that whirlpool suck him down again. "Maybe you've forgotten who you're dealing with, Slayer. I've killed three of your kind. Including you."

"Probably why you get off on fucking them too."

He saw the regret in her eyes the second the words were out of her mouth. His teeth ground together as he forced hands and pride to stay down. "You don't seem to mind that part. Then again, that's what you do best, isn't it?"

"Don't do this."

"Do what?" His voice rang loud in the quiet apartment. "Bring up the past? I'm not going to fucking deny it now that I don't bloody light on fire shaking hands with Mr. Sunshine. Still an evil, disgusting thing. All that's changed is my name." Staring down at his hand, he tried to imagine the blood winding its way through the veins inside.

"Spike."

"There's nothing you can say." Now he was part of the human world and it burned. Where was the strength to keep trying to fit into the world? To carve out a place, a heart and home, for himself. Why not just disappear back into comfortable oblivion where no one knew his name and fewer even cared? Staying with her, knowing what she had done, reminded him of the agony of those first months with his soul. Would it hurt more to leave?

"Let me try."

"Just…don't."

"Please."

The pleading in her voice tugged at his determination to avoid the subject, dark eyes tearing at him with their painful desperation. Resolve crumbled into painful fragments and left him hating the fact that he couldn't just stop loving her. But he didn't have to watch the train wreck happen so he closed his eyes against the sight of her. When he finally spoke, the naked pain in his voice surprised him. "How long?"

"About eight weeks," she answered quietly. "They count weird though. Wasn't quite sure how it all worked."

"And the alcohol? That's the reason you haven't been drinking."

"No." If possible, her voice got even softer. "That night, in the tunnels, I wasn't sober. You almost died and it was my fault."

That caught him off guard and he nearly opened his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he wondered if he even had the nerve to keep asking questions. Each one got harder and more painful. Resisting the urge to apologize for asking, he kept going. "Was I the father?" God, he hated himself for asking.

"Yes." She bristled, voice taut with restrained indignation.

"Is that why you did it? Because it was mine."

There wasn't an answer that wouldn't hurt but he needed to know. When she didn't answer, he began to tense in anticipation of an explosion. Footsteps clipped toward the kitchen, pausing for a second as the bags rustled again before heading back toward him. Funny how he'd learned the sound of her steps, the pace and point of her heel strike against the floor. His eyes flew open when something heavy landed on his lap, books scattering over his thighs as he struggled to get a hold of them.

"What to Expect When You're Expecting, What to Eat When You're Expecting, Exercising During Pregancy." She read off the titles as she tossed the books at him. "I figure I'm gonna be a lousy wife and a piss-poor mom. But the brat kid'll have you, right? That's gotta balance out somehow."

It took another thirty seconds before Spike realized what she was saying, relief flooding through him like morphine. "You didn't? Why?"

Her expression turned serious. "Not because it's wrong or any of that bullshit. And maybe it'll hate me the way I hate my mom; he, she, whatever. Maybe she'll be a Slayer someday and hate me because I didn't. I'll be pushing up daisies before the kid drops out of high school anyway." Full lips curled into a sad smile. "At least the next time I can't save you, I'll have more than a lousy t-shirt. Because it's part of you."

"I'm sorry." It sounded as pathetic as he felt. For wanting to hurt her, wanting to hate her even when he knew he couldn't.

She snorted derisively. "Whole world's fucking sorry."

"Are you alright?" Everything inside his torn and weary soul boiled down to three words.

"I'm a fucking wreck, all girly and wicked moody. I'm so tired, so goddamn tired." The smile took the edge off of her words. "And I love you so much I can't breathe."

The word _love_ rang in his ears until he wondered if he'd imagined it. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"This is me telling you." Kneeling down beside the chair, she laid her head softly against his thigh. "Just got the bombed dropped on my head this morning. Did you want me to put it on the fucking news and broadcast it?"

"How do you feel?" Fingers strayed to her hair, teasing through the shadows and shaking just a little as his world rearranged once again. He was almost afraid to touch her, afraid that she might be just another hallucination his warped brain had cooked up to torment him. That the real Faith was still sitting in that clinic waiting for his child to be ripped from her body like a parasite.

"Don't you dare start treating me like a goddamn porcelain doll."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He marveled at the cool silk of her hair against his fingertips. His entire body felt as light as air and heavy as lead. Emotionally drained to the last drop of pain in his body, slowly refilling with a giddy mixture of excitement and resolve. "You sound good. At least, you don't sound panicked."

"Oh, I'm definitely panicked." Her hold on his leg tightened. "Don't think I've ever been so scared in my life. I'm too scared to be scared."

Spike let out the breath he was holding, picking up the pieces of his shaken world and fitting them back into a semblance of order. One small change. He was going to be father. An uncontrollable smile spread across his face, but he didn't dare move more than his hand. He kept stroking her hair lightly and trying to focus on that moment. It was time to figure out who he was once and for all, to end the searching and plant both feet firmly in the now. Just how the hell was he supposed to do that?

"When? I mean, when will it be here? Or whatever. How soon can we find out if it's a boy or a girl? Do you need anything? New clothes?"

She laughed quietly. "You're askin' the wrong person. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that there's somebody else in here."

"No more patrol."

"Fuck that."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Dark eyes sparked angrily as she looked up. "I'm not made of fucking glass."

"And a pregnant Slayer isn't a big deal?" He raised one eyebrow and shook his head. "Every vamp in Boston would take a swipe at you if they knew." That was a disturbing train of thought he wasn't ready to follow to the end of the line.

"That's why we have the boys in blue. Or camouflage. Whatever." She shook her head dismissively. "Not a big deal. Council and government types'll be so happy they'll be pissing their pants. I'm sure we can hit them up for maternity leave or something."

Spike frowned as he remembered how the whole nightmare had begun. "Frye knows."

"I'll handle him," she reassured him quickly. "But what the fuck was he talking about? I wasn't late to that lame-ass meeting."

"He said they'd been waiting for an hour."

"Bullshit."

"Then why?" Spike stopped as understanding struck him. "Bloody hell."

"Care to let me in on that light bulb moment?"

"He set me up." He was both impressed and amused that the techno geek had managed to put together the pieces and take full advantage of the situation. "The bastard already knew where you were and he set me up."

"Why? How?"

"Doesn't matter now. He knows who I am, who I was."

"Oh."

"From the horse's mouth, so to speak, and I'll bet good money that he's going to let the Watchers in on our little secret. And the Scoobies." He took a deep breath as he marveled at the irony of his life. "Unless we let the cat out of the bag first."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll have to settle for a California honeymoon."

"God, I hate that place."

* * *

In the five years that Dr. Olivia Coleman had known Davis Williams, he had never shown weakness or given any sign of vulnerability. He'd never sat in her office and done anything but look her squarely in the face with laughing blue eyes as he challenged her. The slippery nut defying the nutcracker to find a weakness in its shell. Their sessions had kept her on her toes and recharged her drained batteries after dealing with the unhappy and the lost. Spike was Spike, constant and unpredictable in the same paradoxical moment.

"Fire when ready, Doc." The good-natured smirk was familiar ground at least.

"Alright." A little reluctantly she pushed his file aside and faced him. "Why did you ask for a leave of absence?"

"Getting hitched," he answered casually. "She's got family on the west coast and we're headed out there for the big event."

"And you have no family here."

"Right."

Dr. Coleman watched him for a moment, seeing signs of nervousness that were different from the usual itching to get out of her office. "Do you have anything keeping you here, Davis?"

He blinked in surprise. "Course I do."

"Do you really?" She slid the reading glasses off of her nose and tucked them carefully into her pocket. "Your parents are both dead and you have no siblings. Now that Gage and Lieutenant Merritt are gone, what's left for you here?"

"That doesn't have anything to do with it."

"Why not?" She was surprised that she didn't feel any stirrings of victory over having shocked him yet again. "You're human, Davis. And as a human being, you need an emotional support system. That's something you no longer have here in Boston. I don't see you just inside this office and I don't spend my entire day staring at faceless pieces of paper. I talk to the others, I watch. It's my job to look out for all of the men and you're one of them."

No answer.

"You and Gage trained together and according to those who knew you both, you were inseparable from the moment you met. After his death, you changed. We all saw it." She had to reign in the maternal urge to reach out to him. "You pulled away from all of us, left us behind."

"That's not true." He was looking down at his hands, the guilt in his voice betraying the words.

"The world around you changed that night. It became darker, more dangerous, more evil. You lost someone close to you and that's not a wound that heals quickly."

"I'm doing alright."

"Do you think it's right to just push those memories away?" His head snapped up, eyes narrowing warily as she continued. "Do you think that it serves his memory to just forget? To pretend to forget. You meant the world to him and that's how you repay him?"

"Doc?"

"Unlike you, Davis, your partner enjoyed talking to me on occasion. He especially liked to talk about you. About what kind of man you were and about your friendship." She was losing the battle to remain professional and detached. "That night, you faced a serious injury, the death of your partner, and you had to take a human life. What makes you so special that you can just walk away from that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered stiffly.

"What do you know about grief?"

"Had my share."

"After Gage's death, I didn't see any grief."

"Then you were fucking blind," he snapped, shifting in the chair and glancing toward the door.

"I saw rage and I saw someone with a vendetta." She watched as her words began to sink in. "And now I see someone who has no idea what he has and what he lost. Do you really want to get married without figuring that out first? Do you want to drag her into this mess you've gotten yourself into?" He remained sullenly silent, hands maintaining their death grip on the armrests of the chair. "I know you know all of this, Davis. But you seem to have forgotten everything you learned in Psych 101."

"Skipped the week on objectivity," he remarked dryly.

"I'm well aware of my own failure to remain objective."

"It hurts. That what you want to hear? It fucking hurts." With a sudden flurry of movement, he was out of the chair and pacing in front of her desk. "He was all I had. Friend, brother, partner. It's just that…I can't. He's gone and I should have, I could have."

"It wasn't your fault."

He stopped and looked down at his hands. "It shouldn't have been him. He was a good man."

"You did everything you could."

"Did I?" Shaking his head, he turned back to the chair and tiredly sunk onto the cushion. "Got one thing right, Doc. I don't have a bloody clue what I'm supposed to do."

"You've seen a lot in the last six months."

"You have no idea."

"I think I have an inkling. I'm sorry to push, Davis, but I didn't know any other way to reach you." At his incredulous look, she smiled gently. "You tend to squirrel away your problems and refuse to face them. You get angry and defensive. Sometimes it takes a little push in the right direction."

He closed his eyes as he leaned back against the back of the chair. "Everything I say stays in this room, right?"

"Of course." She waited patiently as he seemed to relax and gather his thoughts.

"There's this hole, this place inside me that's empty now and I don't know how to fill it. Don't know if there's anything or anyone who will ever fill those shoes. And I'm tired of being alive." His voice faded away into the silence. "At the same time, I've got this girl, Faith. And she's the most amazing thing I've ever had. Powerful, beautiful, complicated as hell. We're happy, I'm happy. But there's still this hole. Where he was."

"Gage?"

"Yeah. And I've lost people I loved, God knows I've lost enough. Why isn't it the same? Why does it just keep hurting?"

"Because it's real."

"Real," he echoed softly.

"If you'd been able to see the two of you together, you wouldn't be asking why. But the fact that it hurts doesn't make it bad or wrong or something to just bury away and forget."

Blue eyes opened, finding her and pinning her with intense scrutiny, as though he was trying to decide if he could trust her. He began hesitantly. "Faith. The woman I'm going to marry. She's pregnant. That's not why we're tying the knot, I just found out about it."

"Davis? If you _don't_ have whiplash from the last six months of your life then your head must be firmly in the sand."

Rich laughter filled the small office and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "It's been pretty crazy."

"I'd say that the was the understatement of the century."

"Yeah." His head lowered, fingers tapping together in a slow beat. "I thought, at first, that she'd had an abortion. It's complicated."

"Go on."

"I was furious. That she hadn't told me, that she wouldn't talk to me about it first."

"I understand."

"I just can't lose anyone else." There was a long pause as he studied his hands. "Gage was the best friend I've ever had and I couldn't save him. And sitting there, thinking that I'd failed again, that I hadn't been able to save the baby. It was worse."

"Have you talked about this with Faith?"

"Yeah. Sort of. We've talked about the baby."

"Does she know about Gage? About what happened."

"She knows he's dead." He looked up, the emotion in his eyes bare and raw. "I haven't…talked. About him. What he was like, who he was. Guess I figured that if I just didn't think about it, it'd go away. He's dead and so is the monster who killed him. There's nothing else I can do, right?"

"Can you think of anything else?"

He visibly wavered. "Just wish he was here to tell me what to do. How to live. He always had the right answers. I wish he could have met Faith. Seen the baby."

"What makes this world worth living in isn't the car we drive or the money we have, Davis. It's the bonds we form with our fellow human beings. What makes us real isn't the air we breathe or the blood in our veins. It's our emotions, our love, our tears and pain. That's all we really have that truly belongs to us, that we can ever truly own. Our own hearts."

"Thanks, Doc. For listening." The smile on his face was grateful.

"One more thing before I say congratulations and send you on your way." Her fingers moved to the heavy manila folder and the plain envelope inside. "I think that Gage knew you as well as anyone on this earth and he knew that you would do anything for him. That you would die for him if you could. And he knew that a day might come when that choice would have to be made. During my last interview with him, he gave me this and asked me to keep it in your records in case that day came. I haven't read it, but I have an idea of what's inside. He wanted you to know that he was just as ready to die for you." The envelope shook slightly as she handed it over the desk.

Tears pricked her eyes as she watched him take the letter and slowly stand up. He thanked her with a silent nod before turning away and leaving her office empty once again. The air seemed much colder and the silence seemed heavier.

Several minutes passed before she pushed herself to reach for his file and begin filling out the final paperwork. He wouldn't be back to Boston for a long time. Maybe he would never return. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what road his life would take with a wife and a child. Probably not suburbia and white picket fences, that wouldn't suit him at all.

Of course, marrying a Vampire Slayer wasn't the best idea if one wanted peace and quiet. The phone was cool against her ear as she dialed.

"Full Moon Rising Books and Occult Supplies, how may I help you?" A cheerful voice answered.

"Verek? It's Olivia."

* * *

_Davis,_

_Yes, old buddy, old pal, it's addressed to you. The name your mum gave you, remember? Lord knows you usually only answer to Spike these days. Still having those nightmares? Still - how'd you put it – wigged out? You really are an eighties reject sometimes. But I love you anyway. Not that kind of love. Head out of the gutter, you sick bastard._

_If you're reading this then I'm not around to crack jokes at your expense and Nana Matthews had better not be right about coming back as a fucking worm. It also means that you've lost the opportunity to partake of my wisdom. Kidding. You're the one who always had his head on straight and feet on the ground. I never would have made it through training if you hadn't been there to strong-arm me into being a better man. And unless I royally fucked up somehow, you're probably kicking yourself and feeling responsible for whatever the hell happened._

_Stop. Right now. I mean it. Don't make me crawl back out of this grave and ruin a perfectly good suit just to kick your ass._

_You're the best fucking cop I know. You don't make mistakes, Davis, not when it counts, not ever. I don't know what you're running from or what you're hiding. I don't know about the skeletons in your closet or the demons in your past. But I know they're there because you get this haunted look sometimes. Like you're looking into the Total Perspective Vortex. I don't know what you've done or care about whatever it is that stares back out at you from the mirror because it doesn't fucking matter. That path has been taken and those roads are no longer an option. Want to know the secret of life? And no, I'm not going to say 42. Here it is, the big secret. Don't look back._

_Don't look back and wonder if you could have done something differently to change what happened. Nana Matthews told me there was a reason for everything and I was too scared of her to not believe. I still believe. That you're having nightmares for a reason. Maybe a wake-up call to take a break or deal with whatever you've done that's so horrible you can't tell me about it. And yes, if I'm six feet under, then there had to be a reason for it. Maybe not one you or I can see but the universe is a pretty big place and time goes on for eternity. So who knows what the reason could be?_

_Don't look back and end up wasting your life trying to fix the past. It can't be fixed. It's done broke. And it makes us who we are, shapes our identities. It's a part of what made you who you are today. And you, Davis Williams, are a good man. This is a fact, don't argue with me. You'd have to get a psychic to do that anyway so just take my word for it._

_I'm glad you were the one to walk away. Me? I'm small potatoes. I'm just a boy from Long Island trying to have a good time. You're something a little different. You're a force of nature, you're a wonder of the world. You have passion, determination, and occasionally more balls than brains, but hey, not entirely a bad thing. The point is – you'll make a difference in this world. I was just a face in the crowd tagging along on your way to greatness. Another fact._

_Wish I could have seen it. The rest of your life. And when you finally find a woman crazy enough to have you, I know she's gonna be a knockout. So I'm sorry I never got to see her. And I would have thrown a killer bachelor party for you before she took you off the market. Good times would have been had. There would have been bad times too. Knowing me, you would have helped me through a couple divorces and told me I was a goddamn moron for screwing it up. But you would have been there. The only regret I have is that I didn't get the chance to be there for you. For your kid's first birthday, for your first anniversary. Fishing trips, skiing trips, dinner parties. Or just at the end of the phone line at three in the morning when you've been fighting with the missus and don't know what to do._

_Most of all, don't lock yourself away from the world just because I'm not there to drag you out of your shell. Life is meant to be lived. No pain, no gain, right? Enough sentimental last words. I think I'm gonna gag as it is._

_Get out there. Get a wife, raise some baby Spikes, and have a good life. Catch the bad guys. Get old, lose your hair, and get a beer gut. Do it for yourself. Do it for me. _

_So long and thanks for all the fish,_

_Gage_

Spike folded the already worn envelope carefully and tucked it back into this jacket pocket before adding the last suitcase to the back seat of the car. A cold rain had begun to drizzle over Boston. Tempus fugit. Thanksgiving was just around the corner and there were only forty-three shopping days left before Christmas. His mother would have cooked a turkey and fussed over Faith like a mother hen guarding her chicks.

"Ready?" Faith's smile warmed the chilly air.

"As I'll ever be." He made sure she was comfortable before he turned the keys, ignoring her indignant protests and the flushing of her cheeks as he worried over her. They drove in silence as they headed out of the city, watching the familiar buildings and streets pass by with the feeling of goodbye hanging in the air. She would be safer in Sunnydale. The baby would be safer. Two Slayers, an entire military base. Even with the Hellmouth it would be safer.

"Let me know if you need me to drive," she offered as he pulled onto the freeway. "Still don't know why we couldn't fly."

"Because you hate planes."

"Yeah. But it would've taken like two seconds compared to driving across the whole fucking country."

"Harder for Birkman to tail us this way."

"You two really need to just duke it out one of these days."

"Don't give me ideas." He waited as she flipped through the radio stations and finally abandoned the search, digging into her bag for the CD folder. "Did I ever tell you about Gage?"

"No." She set the CDs on her lap gently. "What was he like?"

The usual reaction to his human memories wasn't quite as violent, only vague uneasiness and a whispering desire to forget about them.

"He reminded me of Xander. Without the attitude. The first day of training, I show up and there's this guy. Sandy blond hair, perfect teeth, and I'm thinking he's gotta be a complete asshole, right? I'm bored out of my mind listening to the orientation speech and what-have-you when he starts playing dominoes with the sugar packets. Next thing I know, he's got the whole damn table set up as some sort of battle ground. Artificial sweetener versus sugar and the spoons are all rigged up to be catapults with the creamer. He's got a commentary going on, real quiet like, about casualties and fallen soldiers. Fucking hilarious. So I'm getting into it, maneuvering my catapults and spoons. The stirring rods were supposed to be ballistic missiles or something. My sugar battalion goes left and his Splenda packets split into two divisions just as the orientation guy is finishing up. He launches a creamer, it goes wide and when I try to catch it, my elbow hits the top of the coffee maker."

"Coffee everywhere?" Faith cringed.

"You have no idea. It tipped over and the cup rolled out, lid pops open and the great coffee flood begins. Everyone's looking at us like we just pissed on the carpet or something and this guy, this crazy-ass rookie cop; he just looks at me, straight faced, and says. 'That was seriously uncalled for, dude. I don't even have nuclear weapons yet.' We're trying not to laugh and cleaning up the coffee. I think he freaked a few of the guys out talking about radioactive sugar."

"He sounds like a pretty cool guy."

"Yeah." Spike smiled and reached for her hand. "You would have liked him."


	43. Foundations

Note: Thank you so much for all the kind reviews, emails, good advice, and support.  It made a very, very difficult chapter worth doing.  I'm really hammering these major issues – infertility, abortion, etc.  They're not fun to write about, they're not pretty, and I will probably never put myself through the agony again.  I would have loved to avoid the abortion issue completely but I believe it's something that the character of Faith would seriously consider.  At the same time, it gave me the opportunity to think about a side of abortion that isn't talked about as much – the effect on the potential fathers.  I also wanted Spike to face a situation that would force him to make a conscious choice about the level of violence that was acceptable in the relationship.  Yeah.  I think way too much.

I'm not sure if anyone else thinks that Angel's sense of humor is completely underutilized in the show and in fanfiction.  Angelus has all the fun.  My pet theory is that in order to write tortured, tragic Angel – Joss locks the entire staff in a very tiny room with no air conditioning and forces them to watch reruns of Barney the Purple Dinosaur.  When they write Angelus - it's Bora Bora white sand and Corona Lite.

Foundations – 

            Angel was on the verge of declaring his life to be an exercise in futility.  Go on, hit the vampire with the soul one more time.  He won't die and he'll keep coming back for more like a mongrel dog who doesn't know about PETA.  The list would have gone on for miles if he'd actually felt compelled to write everything down.  That was a depressing thought.  Although not as bad as spending eternity in a one room apartment with six roommates. 

            "Any luck?" Wesley's voice wafted up through the chute in the ceiling that had delivered them all to the room below.

            "No." He muttered, trying to un-wedge himself from the tunnel walls without losing both his dignity and the bed sheet rope around his waist.  Just in case he managed to get to the top, not get staked climbing out into the hallways of Wolfram and Hart, and then be able to pull the rest of the gang up through the tunnel.  A week had passed since they'd exhausted the other possible escape routes and turned to the chute in the ceiling.  So far, his progress had been minimal.  The first few times had ended with him tumbling back through the tube, unable to find anything to grab hold of to stop his fall, and landing ungracefully in a pile of chairs and people at the bottom.  

            Days like this?  The Powers could take their Shanshu and shove it.  He was pretty sure he'd gotten screwed in that arena as well.  Probably something in the fine print about not trying to destroy an all-powerful demon with talents in mass hypnosis who might eat a few people but was actually going to save the world.  Optimism was a slippery little rodent.  Welcome to Los Angeles.  Home of the beautiful, the rich, the damned, and the screwed.  He inched his way around the first bend, using legs and back to seesaw his way through the narrow hollow with hands splayed against the sides in an attempt to stabilize his ascent.  Something was clicking up ahead in the darkness.  Not good.  There hadn't been any booby traps so far but that didn't mean they weren't there.  Click, click.  

            A softer sound followed the clicking as he froze in place and waited.  Almost a thud.  Or a squish.  Definitely a squish.  Maybe a thuddy squish or squishy thud.  Straining to see in the pitch black, he could pick out two faint lights appearing around the far corner.  Whatever it was, it was slow moving and looked small.  Click, click, followed by mechanical whirring.  He tensed as it crept toward him, waiting for it to spray holy water or leap onto his aching muscles with a barrage of tiny crucifixes clutched in robotic fists.  Instead, it stopped a few inches away from his outstretched hands.

            It beeped.

            "Sorry.  Speak any English?" He asked warily as the two lights swiveled around.  More squishy thuds.  The creature's feet appeared to be small suction cups that allowed it to walk slowly down the walls of the tunnel without falling.

            "Beep."

            "I'm sure you're cute for your species.  Whatever you are.  But I'm really not in the market for a pet."

            "Beep, beep."

            "You're not going to stick me with anything, are you?  Some sort of poison or anything like that." No answer came from the mechanical crawler and he sighed, preparing to continue his agonizing wiggle up through the darkness.

            "Beep."

            "Look.  Unless you know a way to get us out of here."

            "Beep, beep."

            "Is that a yes?" 

Pale eyes twisted and the creature continued its downward path.  Angel twisted to the side, trying to keep his position and the creature off of his chest as it squished down the wall.  It paused when it reached him, testing the surface with a single suction cup and letting off a stream of scolding beeps.  

"I was here first, buddy."  Something jabbed into his side painfully.  "Hey!"

            Reaching down precariously with one hand, he plucked the critter off of the wall and set it on his chest, staring into the two eyes.  "Let me make this simple.  No jabbing, no stabbing, no crawling all over me.  I'm going up and that means you are too.  Now stop squirming."  

Suction cup legs folded neatly into the body as secondary appendages unfurled.  At the end were metal clips that took hold of his shirt tightly. 

"That's better." 

A tingling sensation began to spread from the spot where he had been jabbed.  Even mechanical insect creatures were out to get him.  Damn Wolfram and Hart.  Cursing the diminutive monster tucked into a ball on his chest, he began to ease himself down the tunnel before the numbness spread to his limbs and he was once more dumped out on his ass.  Around the corner.  Just a few more feet before it opened up and plunged straight down.

            "Angel?"

            "I'm coming down." He grimaced as the tingling crept into his shoulders.  "Get everyone out of the way."

            "Are you alright?"

            "Fine." He scowled at the bug.  It beeped cheerfully in response.  

            The tunnel opened up beneath him just as he lost feeling in his arms and legs, helplessly listening to fabric slide against paint while his body began the descent one more time.  Light exploded around him and there was brief glimpse of concerned, familiar faces before he hit the mattress lying under the hole.  One benefit of the numbing drug the little evil had stuck him with was that the fall didn't hurt.  Down side?  He couldn't move a muscle as the others crowded around him with worried faces and questions.

            "Squeebo!" Fred darted forward and tapped a button on the back of the mechanical cockroach's back.  The metal teeth let go of Angel's shirt instantly.  "Where did you find him?"

            "Squeebo?" Gunn raised his eyebrows.

            "That thing," Angel answered tiredly.  "Stuck me with something and now I can't move."

            "Oh." She frowned down at the tiny creature in her hands.  "It's probably a muscle relaxant and it should wear off soon.  He's not big enough to carry much of a dose so it was probably just enough to knock someone out and scamper away.  Did you threaten him?"

            "It attacked me!"

            "Well it must have had a reason."

            "Fred, hold up a sec." Gunn intervened quickly.  "You know what that thing is?  And you call it Squeebo?"

            "It's a reconnaissance device Knox was working on." Turning away from the group, she set it down gently on the table.  Clipped feet retracted and the suction cups returned.  "The AI is really advanced and it can do almost anything.  Climb walls, carry bombs, plant bugs.  You can even attach cameras and recording equipment."

            "It was in the tunnel?" Wesley glanced down at Angel.

            "Coming down."

            "Knox must have sent it." Fred patted the smooth back, producing a series of beeps from the small creature.  "It doesn't move very fast with the suction cups so it's probably been in the tunnel for a few days.  I wonder how he knew where we were."

            "I don't suppose Wonder Bug can get us out of here." Gunn leaned down for a closer look.

            "I'm afraid not.  He's not big enough to carry the right tools." Squeebo beeped a few more times before another string of clicks produced a tiny arm clutching a thin pen at the end.  "I think he wants to write something."

            "Here's a magazine." Wesley slid the paper close enough for Squeebo to reach out and begin drawing a set of lines.

            "Uh, guys?" Angel winced as feeling began to return to his limbs.  "A little help here?"

            "Oh, sorry." Wesley immediately moved to Angel's side and motioned for Gunn to take the other.  Together, they helped Angel stumble to his feet and eased him onto one of the chairs where he could watch the bug draw a progression of quick sharp lines.

            "Looks like a Grandma Moses painting." Gunn commented.

            "Or a schematic of some kind." Wesley offered thoughtfully.

            "Blueprints." Fred exclaimed, pulling a chair around to study the lines.  "He's drawing a floor plan.  Probably of Wolfram and Hart."

            "Least we'll know where they stuck us."

            "We're outside the main building." Wesley pointed to one of the lines.  "This looks like the alcove of the lobby.  The tunnel must go down through the walls from the third floor and we're underneath the lobby."

            "But how far down?" Numbness subsiding, Angel leaned forward to examine the diagram.  Squeebo answered with a beep and neatly drew a small three with arrows pointing up to the lobby floor.  "He can understand English?"

            "The speech recognition memory bank can hold up to twenty five languages." Fred smiled proudly at the robot.  "At least someone up there is trying to find us."

            "Look." Wesley reached out curiously and prodded Squeebo's side.  It trilled and beeped furiously before a tiny hatch opened and a narrow metal cylinder popped out onto the table.  

            "That better not be the robot equivalent of having a baby." Angel eyed the cylinder suspiciously.  

            "It's a message capsule." The two halves separated with a click when Wesley twisted the ends.  He pulled out a rolled piece of paper.  "There's some sort of code."

            "Let me try." Fred took the paper, squinting at the tiny characters printed in dark ink.  "It's the shorthand the lab uses.  _Demons everywhere, security tight.  Safer where you are, send Squeebo back with news._  That's Knox's symbol here.  You don't think they put us down here to protect us, do you?" 

            "Not likely." Angel sighed, rubbing his side where Squeebo had stabbed him.  

The room settled back into the familiar quiet with only the occasional beep from their latest addition to break the monotony.  Quietly, Fred was pointing out some of the features of Squeebo to Wesley and explaining the code system used by the science department.  In the far corner, Lorne had merely raised his head from the paperback he was reading to observe the commotion before returning his attention to the pages.  Gunn and Gwen were conversing softly on the sofa bed they had claimed as their own.  Behind them, Cordelia was sound asleep on another sofa with the Shanshu reference key held tightly in her arms.  

Angel softened a little as he watched her.  She'd read the key a dozen times, convinced that the answer was in there somewhere and determined to find it.  Being trapped in one room and stuck in the same set of clothes for days was probably harder on her than anyone else.  He smiled, wistfully remembering the old Cordelia he'd found in Los Angeles with her actress dreams and clothing obsession.  A little shaky from the drug, he left the chair near Fred and Wesley to move across the room and take a seat beside Cordelia.  Carefully, he tried not to disturb her slumber as he brushed thick dark hair out of the way and sunk down onto the cushion.  Awkwardly reaching over and patting her shoulder softly.

"As old as you are, Angel, you'd think that you'd have figured out how to comfort someone the right way." Her voice was sleepy but there was a smile on her face when she looked up.

            "That bad?"

            "It's the thought that counts."

            "It can't be comfortable to sleep with that thing." He motioned to the reference key.

            "I'm afraid that it'll disappear if I let go of it."  She shifted on the couch, placing her head on his lap as she stretched out.  "How'd the climbing excursion go?"

            "Came back with a souvenir."

            "The Pixar cockroach?"

            "Its name is Squeebo."

            "Not gonna ask."

            "It's word from the outside world at least and it drew a diagram of where we are.  Wes thinks we're underneath the lobby of Wolfram and Hart." Relaxing, he brushed her hair lightly and tried not to worry about getting out for at least five minutes.  The Slayers could handle themselves for a while and the fact that the gang was still trapped in the basement probably meant all three were alive and kicking.

            "No idea why we're here though?"

            "The note said there's a lot of demon activity up there and that we're probably safer here." Angel shrugged.  "Who knows.  Maybe they aren't trying to kill us this time."

            "What are the odds?"

            "Slim to none."

            "Right." With a yawn, she sat up beside him and crossed her legs Indian style to serve as a cradle for the reference key.  "You know, it's amazing how many files reference Shanshu that have absolutely nothing to do with you.  Don't get me wrong, you're still the main attraction but there are a lot that go to something completely different.  Unfortunately, I can't get to the actual files and read the whole thing.  This only summarizes them."

            "It's alright."

            "I've got to do something to keep from losing my mind in this place." She gave his hand a light squeeze before opening the binder and starting to read.

            "We'll get out of here."

            "I know." 

            Angel turned his eyes to the rest of the room, letting his thoughts wander as he watched the people around him.  The fact that they hadn't killed each other in too many days of living side by side was a strong testament to how close they had become over the years.  It was a long way from being a bunch of ragtag demon fighters and misfits to the team of friends and warriors they were now.  There were times when he missed the simplicity of the early days with Doyle and Cordelia, then Cordelia and Wesley, but he couldn't imagine the last three years without the rest of them.  Lorne, Fred, Gunn, even Gwen had managed to carve out a place in the group.  What would Connor be like now if he had lived?  Would he be here?  Or would he have left Los Angeles to pursue his own dreams.  College, career, maybe even a girlfriend.      

            One question that had never been answered still haunted the back of his mind.  Why had Connor killed Jasmine?  When all his hatred and all his fear had been pinned on Angel for so long.  There had been a moment of panic, of doubt, when Jasmine had asked Connor to help her kill his own father.  A moment where Angel had steeled himself for the inevitable, not willing to fight his son even if it ended in dust.  But Connor had killed Jasmine instead and that dread had turned to hope that there might still be a future for them.  As something.  If they couldn't be father and son then they could at least be friends.  

            If he'd known that Connor hadn't jumped, that the too many seconds it took him to get from where he saw Connor fall to where he found the body held more treachery than he'd ever known.  He probably still would have taken the deal for Cordelia's sake.  Because regardless of what else Wolfram and Hart had planned, they had saved Cordelia.  Then there had been the awkward social two-stepping as he repaired the rest of the emotional damage the group had suffered.  It had taken a year for Wesley to finally confide in the rest of the group that he had been searching for a way to break Lilah's contract and free her soul.  Already tense relations had gone Cold War after that as Lilah reverted to her former ruthless self, un-tempered by any feelings she had for Wesley.  

            His musing triggered another random string of thoughts.  If Cara had Lilah's memories, would she feel the same emotions?  Would she love and hate Wesley at the same time?  As Watcher and Slayer there had been a noticeable element of respect and admiration between them, even to the point that he had seen Cara fiercely protect and defend Wesley before helping anyone else.  Even with her memory makeover, it had been a surprise to hear that she hadn't wanted to return to Los Angeles. 

            "Angel?" Cordelia prodded him lightly.  "You've got your Unhappy Thoughts face."

            "Just thinking." He watched Wesley examining the tiny robot, testing the buttons and each of the suction cup feet.  "Wondering what's in Cara's head that's important enough to worry Senior Partners."

            "May never know.  Even when Trigger Happy Girl was sane, she wasn't exactly chatty." She smiled sympathetically as she looked up from the reference key.  "At least she's doing better though.  According to Lilah's message anyway."

            "What do you think she?  About her and Wesley."

            "Major weirdness there." Cordelia turned her attention to Wesley and Fred.  "Can you imagine memories of having sex with someone when you haven't actually had sex with them?  That's got to be really frustrating in more ways that one.  I'd probably go crazy too."

            "Do you think that she feels the way Lilah did?  That maybe she loves him."

            "Or thinks that she loves him." 

            "Exactly."

            "Wouldn't she have stayed if she did?"

            "Maybe not." He frowned, plucking at the random thoughts beginning to form a pattern.  "This room is new, the tunnel is new.  New locks on the doors, new passwords.  Maybe the trap wasn't for us."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Maybe we're the bait.  Or Wesley is." He saw her expression changed as she followed his gaze back to Wesley and her hands tightened on the reference key in her lap.  "They can't go after her."

            "So they're hoping she'll come after him?"

            "Think about it, Cordy.  If she's sane enough to think of him as her Watcher, she'll come.  If she thinks she's in love with him, she'll come."

            "And they'll be ready for her." Cordelia's fingernails tapped against the binder as she considered the idea.  "Sounds like something Wolfram and Hart would do.  They're probably even hoping that Buffy will call or something.  I mean, they could tell her you were in trouble and she'd come running to the rescue, probably even bring Faith.  Should we tell Wesley?"

            Angel forced a smile.  "He usually figures everything out before we do."

            "And forgets to let us in on the scoop.  I tell you, that man has more issues than Vogue." With a sigh, she closed the reference key.  "Guess we should come up with some sort of plan.   Or you could try climbing out of the hole again."  

            Angel swallowed back a groan and pushed his tired body reluctantly out of the comfortable embrace of the sofa.  "I'll get Squeebo back up the chute.  What should we tell Knox?"

            "I've already written a note." Fred held up a piece of paper matter-of-factly.  "It's says we're okay but want to get out of here ASAP."

            "Perfect." He watched her tuck the note into the cylinder and carefully insert it back into Squeebo's mail box.  The makeshift rope was once again tied around his waist and the chairs piled up so that he could climb into the hole in the ceiling.  Squeebo chirped happily as it clipped tiny feet onto his shirt, blissfully ignorant of the reproachful glare it was getting from the vampire as he wedged himself back up into the tunnel.    

            "Keep your needles to yourself this time." 

            "Beep."

            Angel resisted the urge to roll his eyes and concentrated on scaling the narrow passageway.  The first twenty feet were the most difficult.  A nearly vertical chute, it was time consuming and laborious to shimmy his way up.  This time, he tried to imagine where he was with relation to the blueprints Squeebo had drawn on the magazine.  If the room extended under the lobby at a depth of three feet and the tunnel burrowed up through the wall, then the floor should be just a few inches away from where he was.  He figured the lobby itself had fourteen-foot ceilings in the alcove section.  The tunnel bent after that, twisting up through the walls at a steep but not impossible slope.  Pausing, he pressed one ear against the wall, listening for sounds of life outside the tunnel that would indicate he was in the wall of the lobby.  Maybe he didn't need to climb all the way to the top.  He checked each wall, waiting patiently for any change in the silence of the material.  The surface on his right was different.  He could hear faint, indistinguishable noises coming through the wall.  The hum of voices perhaps.  Punching through the wall wouldn't do much but alert the outside to his presence.

            "Hey, Squeebo."

            "Beep."

            "Don't supposed you can cut a hole through the wall?  Just a little one."

            "Beep, beep." The robot detached from his shirt and carefully extended its suction cups, easing onto the wall one foot at a time.  Whirring softly, another small arm unfolded from the body and touched the wall lightly.  More beeps were followed by the high-pitched whine of a tiny drill.

            "Remind me to get you a can of oil after we get out of here.  Or whatever."

            "Beep, beep." Suction cups moved slightly to the left and the drilling continued.  

            Slowly, patiently, the creature continued to drill into the wall, move a little, and drill again until it had cut a circle the width of Angel's hand.  One foot planted firmly in the middle and began to wiggle the circle out of its hole.  Once the chunk was loose, it moved away and beeped enthusiastically at Angel.  He pressed his knees and back against two of the other walls to free his hands enough to grip the circle and ease it out of the wall.  Once gone, Squeebo slipped two legs through the hole before exchanging suction cups for hooked feet made to grip and disappeared into the emptiness.  The whine of the drill resumed.  Several minutes later, a series of beeps preceded the robot's return, a small circle of drywall clutched in a set of pincers.

            "How many legs do you have in there?"

            "Beep."

            "Right." Angel positioned himself to peer through the hole and blinked against the light pouring in from the lobby beyond the wall.  It looked like the view from the far corner of the alcove, barely above the floor and beside one of the gigantic potted palms.  From his vantage point, he could see the front doors and the receptionist's desk.  The lobby was busy, feet moving back and forth in his view, the hissing of the doors almost constant as they opened and closed.

            "Any brilliant ideas?" He whispered to the mechanical insect holding on to the wall beside him.  

            "Beep."

            "Didn't think so." Shifting enough to give one set of tired muscles a break, he reached into the hole and felt around the darkness inside.  It was a little over six inches thick and hollow.  There was enough cover behind the gargantuan ceramic pot to hide Fred or Gwen and possibly Cordelia if they crawled out one at a time.  But what next?  They wouldn't exactly blend in with the rest of the crowd.

            "Squeebo?  Is the power for the lobby lights inside the walls?"  

            "Beep."

            "They probably have backup generators that kick in if they lose power."

            "Beep."

            "Can we get around that somehow?"

            "Beep."

            "This would be a lot easier if I spoke robot or you spoke English." Angel moved away from the hole and pondered his small companion thoughtfully.  "If Knox could get the lights out and the doors open, I can make a bigger hole and get them up.  At least two or three before they realize what's going on.  Probably Cordy first since she's got the best chance to defend herself and get to Sunnydale.  We'll need a distraction."

            "Beep, beep."

            "Still got that pen and paper?" It responded by digging claws into the wall and extending the pen hand.  The cylinder slid out with a click, falling into Angel's palm.  Twisting the end off, he plucked out the piece of paper and turned it over to the blank side to scribble a quick note.  Hopefully Knox was trustworthy and hopefully he would be able to find a way to get it done.  He tucked the note back inside the cylinder and into Squeebo's back.

            "Beep."

            "Can you get this to him sooner rather than later?"

            "Beep." Squeebo unhooked its claws, beginning the careful wiggling that pulled it back through the hole.  A few moments later the sound of the drill started again as it cut a hole large enough to slip through just behind the potted palm.  The chunk of drywall thudded softly as it fell down inside the wall and Angel heard clicking as mechanical feet landed on the marble floor of the lobby.  More whirring as suction cup feet were folded in.  He peered through the smaller hole, curious as to what type of footwear the creature would be sporting next.  A blur of metal darted out from behind the palm and into the crowd, dodging feet and legs as Squeebo careened across the lobby, tiny wheels spinning furiously.

            "Damn." At that speed, he might as well wait for the robot to return with a reply from Knox.  Wedging himself more securely into the chute, he began to break off chunks of the inner wall in preparation.  If he only had one layer of drywall to break through, it would be that much faster and he might be able to get more of the team out of the basement.  

            "Angel?" Wesley was probably wondering why chunks of plaster were falling down into the room below.

            "I have a plan." He tried to keep his voice quiet enough to not be heard through the wall but loud enough for Wesley to hear.

            "What is it?"

            "Just be ready to get everyone up into the tunnel." He focused on the task at hand, each piece neatly broken off as quietly as possible and either dropped down the chute or into the wall.  

In a stroke of luck, he unearthed a support beam in the floor that he could rest his weight on, taking most of the strain from his aching legs and back.  Beneath him, he could hear the rest of the gang talking and moving furniture.  After the inner hole was large enough for him to squeeze through he broke off a few more pieces to make it easier for Gunn and Lorne before settling in to wait for Squeebo's return.  Once into the lobby, he had to worry about the fact that it was broad daylight outside the building and left him stranded even if the others could get out.  It wasn't like he hadn't faced certain incineration a few hundred times before.  What would it be like to not recoil in the face of the sun?  Then again, he'd never get skin cancer.  Small favors.

Time crawled.  He spent the first hour watching the traffic through the tiny hole in the wall and trying to find a pattern in the weaving crowd.  A lot of people.  Who were they and what were they doing?  The second hour devolved into philosophical brooding that probably wasn't the best way to pass the time considering his current frame of mind.  Then again, he'd gone over the same ideas so often in his centuries of existence that it was almost soothing to face the ever-familiar paradoxes of human theory.  Over the years, particularly those spent trying not to get killed in Los Angeles, he'd imagined every possible scenario if he was to regain his humanity.  From the simplest act of stepping through a doorway to eating ice cream, he'd played the pictures a million times.  And his one day with Buffy more often than that.  

A happy memory amidst so many unhappy ones.  What would it be like to let go?  To finally relax and let himself be happy.  Happiness was something the rest of the world took for granted.  Not the pure, once in a lifetime, complete happiness that would strip away his soul.  Just the day to day enjoyment of being alive that he shied away from because it was too close, too bitter a reminder of what he could never have.  His dedication, his drive, it all came from the same dark place.  Cordelia called him a workaholic.  What choice did he have?  He worked to keep from thinking about everything he couldn't have, from being tempted to pull back the curtains and spending the day staring longingly out over the cityscape.  A hundred more years of work stretched out ahead of him and after those were a hundred more.  Hard to be impulsive and enthusiastic about life with that kind of a future to look forward to.

He'd come to terms with it.  Bit by bit.  Getting used to the daily grind, the killing and the fighting when all he wanted was to just stop and rest.  There was no rest for the wicked.  It became routine.  Hunt, fight, kill.  Friends lightened the load, people who cared made it that much easier to get out there and work.  But there was always the nagging fear that once they had gone the way of mortality, he would be left with just the good fight for company.  Doyle would have been proud that he'd made the choice to stay with his friends in spite of the inevitable ending.  Maybe that was why he stayed.

He nearly brushed away the thoughts impatiently, hearing Cordelia's pointed chiding about his tendency to brood.  Then again, he wouldn't get much of an opportunity to brood at all once the robot returned so he might as well get it over with.  After their escape, if they escaped, then it would be Sunnydale and protecting the Slayers.  If the vampire and demon world hadn't already begun to make advances, it would only be a matter of time before one of them came up with a plan to kill all three.  He was only slightly ashamed that his first concern, his first priority, was to get word to Sunnydale.  To Buffy.  Rationally, he knew that they didn't know how to contact Faith or Cara but that Buffy and Giles might.  It was logical to go to Sunnydale first.  He just wished that was the reason.  Wished that he really had managed to put Buffy where she needed to be.  Behind him.  What had been a dead end all those years ago was more dead than ever.  

A click and a thud alerted him to Squeebo's return.  He shifted his precarious footholds as the robot slipped back through the hole and beeped excitedly.  Catching the creature, he hushed it quickly and reached for the cylinder release button on the back.  Inside the case was another note, this one written in plain English.  _Rescue coming.  Be ready for the distraction._  

"We'll know it when we see it, right?" He looked down at Squeebo for confirmation.

"Beep."

"Thanks."

"Beep, beep."

"You'd better get clear, little guy." Lights swiveled and it chirped softly as he held it back up to the hole.  One more beep and it was back into the lobby, spinning wildly through the maze of shoes.  

Angel twisted around, placing both feet firmly against the floor support and positioning to have the most leverage to pull the rest up through the ceiling.  Several feet below him, he could see them waiting expectantly for the signal.  "Send Cordy first, she can clear a path to the doors if she needs to.  And get ready."  He checked the knot on the homemade rope and found the best grip on the stretched fabric.  As soon as the distraction came, he would kick through the last layer of drywall and start pulling.  Just had to stay focused.  Calm.

Even knowing it was coming, he still jumped when glass shattered and the far side of the lobby exploded in a howling ball of fire.  One foot went through the drywall, another kick and more of the wall peeled out into the chaos.  He yanked up on the rope, pulling the new weight of Cordelia as she scrambled up the chute and grabbed onto the support beam between his feet.

"Be careful." He nodded to the opening.  

Without a word, she pulled herself up and tumbled through the hole, reaching back to break more of the plaster away once she was on solid ground.  Fred came up next, clinging tightly to the rope before grabbing onto Cordelia's hand and disappearing into the light.  He kept pulling, focusing on the motion of hand over hand and trying to keep one eye on the lobby.  Fire had completely engulfed most of the far wall and was spreading up to the higher floors, sending people and demons alike running for cover.  Another explosion rocked the building and this time he recognized the source.  Someone was launching missiles through the windows lining the building's face.  Score another one for Knox.  Just the men were left.  Getting them up through the tunnel was slower going, heavier and awkward in the tight space.

"What's going on?" Wesley asked as he hefted himself up to the hole.

"Distraction."

"Very effective.  Do you need help with the others?"

"No.  Keep going." He was already working on getting Lorne up into the chute.  Just two more.  Hand over hand, praying the sheets wouldn't tear and leave anyone behind.  Lorne pulled himself up and out into the lobby, his broad shoulders barely squeezing through the hole in the walls. 

"How you doing, Angel?"  Gunn wedged himself up through the tunnel, making it easier on Angel.

"Get everyone out of the building and somewhere safe."

"You coming?"

"Sun's out.  I'll find another way."

"Angel?"

"Just go." His voice was sharp.  Once Gunn had slipped through the hole, he untied the rope and tossed it back down the chute.  The lobby had become a deathtrap.  He watched anxiously as the team dashed through smoke and falling debris, flames leaping up around them.  Wolfram and Hart had the best fire system and fire retardant materials in the world but it was still blazing out of control despite the artificial rain trying to douse it.  Knox had obviously altered the missiles to carry accelerants and fuel for the fire itself.

            Cautiously, he slithered out of the hole, staying near the ground to keep from being seen and away from the fire licking at the walls.  Mentally checking off the sewer access routes, he tried to decide which one would be the easiest to get to.  They were probably guarded.  Alarms shrieked through the smoky air around him and another missile crashed through the third floor windows, burrowing into the offices before destroying them in an earth-shaking explosion.  Burning rubble cascaded down into the lobby, blocking nearly half of his exits and cutting off the view of his friends.  This was not his lucky day.  In the midst of the destruction, beneath the skylights several floors above, he caught the glint of metal and saw Squeebo beeping frantically as it whirled around in tight circles.  Damn robot.  

Angel dodged a chunk of burning debris as he leapt forward, intent on getting to the mechanical creature lost in the melee.  Either the smoke had shorted out the circuits or the critter was very confused.  When he reached down to grab hold of its back, wheels spun and it darted between his outstretched hands.

"Come on, Squeebo!  Fred'll kick my ass if I don't save you."

"Beep!"

"I know she doesn't look like much but I'm not joking."

"Beep! Beep!"

Frustrated, he blocked the robot's path with one foot and managed to a get a grip on a single one of the wheeled legs.  It squealed and chirped as it struggled to get away from him.  "Relax!  I'm trying to save your ungrateful robot hide."  

Above him, the skylights exploded and showered them both with a downpour of broken glass.  Clutching Squeebo tightly, he dove out of the threat of sunshine and barely managed to avoid the wall of fire roaring behind them.  In his arms, the little robot had stopped squirming, beeping encouragingly as Angel shook off a layer of glass and squinted through the smoke.  The new source of oxygen pulled the fire higher up into the building, creating a fiery hurricane that spun around them with a thundering chorus of crackling and spitting.

"Beep."

"Yeah.  Looks pretty bad."  He wiped the smoke from his eyes.  Something was coming down through the skylights.  Fast.  Wolfram and Hart must have one more trick up their sleeves.  The dark blob tore through the smoke and fire above them, hitting the ground several feet away.  He blinked rapidly as the figure turned toward him, dark hair swinging in a tight braid over her shoulders.  Cara?

"Grab on!" She shouted through the uproar.  "It won't be enough to kill you."

His other options rapidly dwindling to none, he made sure Squeebo was clipped tightly to his shirt before self-consciously taking hold of both the rope and Cara.  Hopefully the tiny robot was fireproof.  "What about the others?"

"Retrieval team out front." She yanked once on the rope.  "Hold on."

            There was time to glance up before the rope snapped tight, savagely tearing at his shoulders as they hurtled upward through the fire.  In the blazing sunlight, he saw the outline of a helicopter before they burst out of the broken skylight and his whole body began to burn.  Smoke from his own flesh gagged him, flames licking at arms and legs as he combusted.  Eight.  Nine.  Ten.  Teeth grinding together against the agony of his skin, he barely noticed when they were swallowed up into the protective darkness of the helicopter's womb.  Firm hands were pulling him away from the rope and cutting the harness from his injured body.  Somewhere in the haze, Squeebo was beeping softly.  The sensation of cold began to sink in through damaged flesh.  Voices surrounded him as he continued to choke on the revolting smell.  

"The building?" A man asked, his voice almost swallowed by the engine noise.

"Burn it to the ground."  Cara sounded close, beside him maybe, her voice colder and harder than he remembered it.  

Liquid trickled into his mouth and oozed down his throat.  Blood.  Warm, human blood.  Reacting automatically, he tried to move his head away from the source and spit out the temptation coating his tongue.  

"Get over it." Cara ordered sharply.  He felt her hand clamp down on his jaw, stars spinning through his head at the pain radiating from her touch, and feebly choked down the thick blood.  "ETA Sunnydale, one hour.  We're transporting you directly to Buffy's house."

"Beep." 

"Hey Squeebo." One of the male voices responded to the little robot's chirp.

Angel closed his eyes, obediently swallowing down the blood as it dripped past his lips and trying to ignore the painful rattling of the helicopter around him.  When the blood finally stopped coming, he tentatively licked his burnt lips.  "Cara?"  There was no answer and a patch of turbulence kept him silent for several minutes.  "Cara?"

"Yes." Came the brisk answer.

"Lilah's gone." He forced any trace of hope from his voice.  "She said that you knew about the Shanshu prophecy.  How to fulfill it."

More silence.

"If you can remember anything at all." 

The slight pressure of her fingers on his shoulder made him wince.  "I can't help you."

Mouth open and words halfway through the vocal cords, Buffy realized she had no idea what to say and ended up settling for something that came out as a vague comfort salad.  Again, Clueless Buffy had been at the helm and she hadn't seen the subtle hints and land mines that Willow had been leaving behind.  The frowns and the loudly shrieking silence that meant that all was not well in the world of Willow.  Everything that was spilling out over two cups of herbal tea as the witch finally claimed full best friend venting privileges.  There wasn't any valuable relationship advice stored away that she could offer out like a squirrel sharing its cache of nuts.  More like a squirrel looking around its cozy little tree house and finding Styrofoam packing peanuts instead of acorns.

"Sorry, Will." She hoped her expression conveyed the right amount of sympathy and helplessness.  "If there's something that needs to be killed, I'm your girl.  Not so talented with the girlfriend issues.  I thought you were happy."

"I am." Willow assured her quickly.  "Just needed to get a few things, little things, off of my chest.  You know, spring cleaning of the emotional closet except that it's winter, so it's winter cleaning."

"Right.  I'll just be quiet then.  One Buffy sounding board fully operational and at your service."

"They're little things, really.  Tiny, miniscule, little things that really shouldn't be bothering me at all." Willow shifted from upset to guilty.  "Mostly, everything's squeaky clean.  Leia's fabulous.  She's talented and beautiful and she's a great person."

"I'm sensing a but at the non-ending of that sentence."

"Can someone be affectionate and distant at the same time?" With a heavy sigh, Willow curled up into the corner of the couch.  "When I moved in with her, I was all excited for a chance to get closer.  Get to really know her.  But I don't think she wants to let me in at all."

"Is she stonewalling or just being avoidy?"

"Closer to avoidy.  For example, I don't know anything about her family.  She never talks about them, there aren't any pictures, and hey, I can understand not having a great bond with blood kin.  Growing up in the Rosenberg house was never the Partridge experience but I at least acknowledge that I have parents.  And with Tara's family, at least I knew how horrible they were.  With Leia?  Nothing.  Complete lack of info here."

"Maybe she's not ready to tell you." 

"So she's ready to have sex but not tell me about her family?" Willow frowned, color rising into her cheeks as she continued.  "And that's another thing.  Sex!  I'm cool with having the lights out and part of me is super grateful cause I'm still working on the Xander poundage but it feels like she's ashamed or something."

"Maybe she's insecure?" Buffy suggested weakly.

"About what?  She's a stick.  A stick with great curves but still very stick-like.  And she knows I think she's beautiful."

"It's not always enough, Will."

"And we don't really cuddle after, you know?  It's just more like roll over and go to sleep." Her brow furrowed as she took another sip of tea.  "I'm not getting a low self-esteem vibe or anything like that.  More like she just wants to keep me at arm's length for some reason.  And then there's you."

"Me?"

"Sometimes I think she's more interested in you than me."

"I'm sure that's not true." Buffy gripped her own mug tightly, slightly panicking at the intensity of Willow's gaze.

"She asks how you're doing all the time.  Which is really nice and considerate, actually, cause you're going through something right now." Willow paused for a second and frowned.  "How are you doing with the hormones?"

"Like extra strength PMS."

"That bad?"

"It's fine." Buffy tried to smile cheerfully and not blush with embarrassment.  "And I should find out on Thursday if the implants took."

"So," Willow hesitated.  "If it's a yes?"

"I go back every few days until I'm out of the woods.  Then I go back every couple of weeks and cut way down on patrol for nine fun filled months of swollen ankles and morning sickness."

"Can I tell you one more time just how weird this is?  Beyond weird, beyond Sunnydale weird.  Possibly the most weird thing I have ever known in my life and I have been witness to some first class weirdness."

"It's okay."

"Do I dare ask how you got Xander to agree to this?"

"I asked."

"That's it?"

"Well, I was aiming for desperate but endearing bestest friend in dire need of rescue.  But yeah, I just asked." Buffy hid the smile behind the mug.  It had meant more than she could possibly explain to Willow when Xander had half-smiled, stuck his hands in his pockets like a little boy asking for a cookie, and told her to enlist him in the Slayer line regeneration.  Of course, before she'd had time to get teary eyed with relief, he'd given her a mischievous smile and lamented that it was too bad they wouldn't be doing it the old-fashioned way.  

"That's our Xander." Willow's eyes softened.

"If they didn't take, then I'll probably give it a few months and try again.  Dr. James said to think of this time as a dress rehearsal or practice run.  Figuring out all the right hormone levels and ovulation stuff, and I'll probably have a better chance next time since it won't be as much of a shock to the system."

"That's good."

"I never know how much of his speeches are just trying to make me feel better and how much is the cold, hard facts."  

"I'm sure he wants you to have a baby as much as you do." 

"That sounds pretty creepy when you put it like that."

"Creepy but true." Willow reached out and gave Buffy's hand a quick squeeze.  "Whatever it takes.  I could probably look around for some extra magical help if you'd like.  Fertility, that kind of thing."

"Tempting.  But I think I'll take my chances with science."

"Not because you're worried about me, right?  Cause I'm good, more than good, I'm the Fort Knox of goodness."

            Buffy swirled her tea, watching the bits and particles dance around the spiral at the bottom.  "There's a little bit of that.  But mostly it's that I don't always want to be running to you for magic solutions to everything.  Some things need to be worked through on their own." 

            "Well, I'll light a candle for you anyway." 

            "Thanks.  But this chat session isn't about Buffy.  Any ideas on what you're going to do?  Maybe you could tell her how you feel, that's always a good start."

            Sighing heavily, Willow shook her head.  "I think that she'd just pull away from me further.  It's just so different, you know.  To be the pursuer instead of pursued.  Even with Tara, there was no pressure or awkwardness because I knew from the beginning that she wanted to be with me and that was a good feeling.  Knowing that even if you have issues and maybe aren't the best person in the world, that someone wants you no matter what."

            Nodding with understanding, Buffy motioned for her to continue.

            "I knew Oz wanted a relationship.  And Kennedy."

            "Everyone in the house knew what Kennedy wanted." Buffy grinned.

            "Hey!"

            "But I know what you mean." She held up one hand to show she was only teasing.  "It's like a safety net.  Nice comfy wiggle room that means they'll still be there in the morning and you can breathe a little easier."  

            "Exactly.  I've always had that and now I don't.  So I'm a little edgy."  Willow finished her tea and made room for the mug on the crowded coffee table.  "But I think it could be great, really great.  I just wish I knew how to get past the Great Wall of Leia."

            "Just be patient.  God, I sound like my mother." Buffy laughed, setting aside her mug to reach for the phone as it began to chirp loudly.  "Just a sec, Will.  It's probably Dawn letting me know she's going to be late getting home.  There's this guy in one of her study groups that she's been talking about nonstop."

            "At least she's studying."

            "If that's what they call it these days." She rolled her eyes as she pressed the receiver against her ear.  "Summers residence, Buffy at your service."

            "We have a situation, Buffy." Riley's voice was almost buried under the background noise.

            "Riley?" Buffy frowned, hitting the volume button on the phone.  "I can barely hear you.  What's going on?"

            "I'm in a helicopter.  Should be there in about five minutes."

            "Be where?"

            "Your house."

            "You're coming here?  In a helicopter?" Buffy leaned over the back of the couch to peer out of the front windows.  "Why?"

            "I'll fill you in when I get there.  We need you to meet us in the backyard and keep the doors open.  Once we lower the cradle, we'll have to move fast and get him into the basement as soon as possible."

            "Who's going in my basement?"

            There was a moment of crackling engine noise before his voice came back through the phone line, "It's Angel."

            Buffy stared at the phone after it clicked, her ears ringing from the sound of the engine and Riley's words.  Looking up, she saw Willow's concerned face and shook herself out of the shock.  "Riley's bringing Angel here.  We'll need blankets."

            "No problem." Suddenly businesslike, Willow set aside her mug and stood up.  "Heavy, non-combusting blankets coming up."

            "He said to meet him in the backyard and to keep the doors open."

            "You go wait, I'll get everything."

            Gratefully, Buffy hurried through the house, making a quick sweep of the basement and kitchen to insure that the path was free of obstacles that could slow them down or trip unsuspecting feet.  There would be time for questions and answers later.  Like why she hadn't heard from Angel in weeks just as they'd gotten to the point where she could randomly call and actually have a decent conversation with him.  And why Riley was bringing him in with a helicopter and dropping him into the backyard.  Why Riley would even risk transporting Angel during the daylight hours or fly into a residential area at all were also high priority questions.  From the back porch, she could hear the rattling thrum of the engine as it got closer.  Willow was already waiting at the bottom of the steps with a stack of blankets in her arms.  

Wind picked up, tossing her ponytail and kicking up dust as the helicopter spun over the roof to hover above the lawn.  A dusty green insect stretching the length of the backyard with the barrels of mounted machine guns jutting out wickedly from the sides.  Shielding her face against the assault of wind and dust, she watched as the flank of the machine opened up into a gaping mouth spewing out black cable and a man dressed in camouflage.  He hit the ground several feet away, jerking the ropes around and keeping his eyes trained up on the helicopter.  Slowly, a tangle of metal rods and canvas lowered out of the side carrying a human sized load.  To Buffy it looked like a body bag drifting down through the tornado of dust and air, her throat constricting as she watched it sway precariously despite the marine's attempt to stabilize its descent.  When it finally came to rest, the sound of the impact torn away by the wind and her heart leaping erratically, the soldier unclipped the ropes that had held it and motioned for them to come forward.

Dirt and grass whipped across her face as he motioned for her to take hold of one end and pick up the cradle.  Unnerved by the sickeningly familiar form covered in black canvas, she hefted her end and started toward the back door.  When Willow moved to help them, the soldier waved her back to the helicopter, his shouted words snatched away before Buffy could hear them.  Glancing back, she saw another rope drop out of the helicopter's mouth and another set of combat boots began the controlled drop to the ground.  Willow could take care of it.  Awkwardly, she and the soldier managed to get up the porch steps, through the kitchen and down the basement steps.  

It was blissfully quiet to be surrounded by concrete and earth.  She made sure the still body was out of any possible sunlight before motioning to her lifting partner and easing it onto the floor.  When nothing happened, she realized that she was expecting the zipper to open and Angel to climb out with his hair a little messed up but everything else in working order.  The absolute stillness was frighteningly ominous.  Her hand reached toward the gleaming silver zipper even as her brain screamed in protest.

"Buffy?" Willow's footsteps hurried down the stairs.  "Don't open it!"

The hand stopped inches away.  Buffy stared down at her own fingers as though watching an alien being poised above an obsidian statue.  Heavier steps sounded in the stillness and she could hear the retreating hum of the helicopter.  Still transfixed by the body at her feet, she could feel Willow standing beside her and hear movement at the base of the stairs.

"Buffy?" Riley's voice finally broke the spell.

"What happened?" The words trailed away as she looked up and realized what he was holding.

The third Slayer was barely recognizable.  Eyes closed and cradled against Riley's chest, the right side of her face was red and blistered with angry burns.  Scorched clothing falling away in bits of ash to reveal more burns covering her right arm and clawing down her ribs and waist.  Willow spread the blankets out on the floor quickly and helped him ease Cara's unconscious form onto the hasty bed.  There were more burns in ugly streaks down her legs and along the inside of her left arm.

"Oh God." She looked back down at the body bag.  "Is he?"

"Worse." Riley wiped ash off of his hands.  "It was the only way to get him out of the building.  He was conscious for most of the trip so they managed to get some human blood in him but he'll need more soon."

"What happened?"

Riley shifted onto his left foot uncomfortably, "A message came in from the team in Brazil about two weeks ago, they lost half of their team and had to pull out.  Once they crossed the borders, Cara asked me to talk to someone named Knox at Wolfram and Hart.  He told me that Angel and the group had disappeared about the same time."

"Two weeks ago?  Why didn't you tell me?" Buffy clenched her fists tightly at her sides.

"Because you would have gone after him." 

"And?"

"And it was a trap, Buffy." He raked one hand through his hair with frustration and motioned to Cara.  "Don't ask me how but this girl has a nose for those things.  We kept tabs on the law office, checked out every angle, and then waited to find out if they were even still alive.  Once Knox found them, we went in to get them out.  At least that was the plan."

"What happened to the plan?" She wanted to know why Angel was lying in a body bag on her basement floor, injured and in pain.  Had that been part of the plan?

"We flew in and launched a half dozen missiles into front of the building.  Whoever the Senior Partners are, they were prepared for almost anything, and every other way would have been a bloodbath.  They were supposed to be safely underground when the extraction team went in but they climbed out and he got trapped in the building."

"So you opted for taking him out into broad daylight since that's so much less dangerous for him?" Both scared and furious, she was torn between thanking Riley for going after Angel and screaming at him for messing it up.

"Cara dropped in through the skylights and pulled him up into one of the helicopters.  He was only in the sun for a few seconds."

"A few seconds is all it takes." Anger was winning, fueled by guilt that she hadn't been there to help and the bitter What Ifs that were beginning to trample through rationality.

"It was the only way."  Riley stiffened defensively.

"There's always another way."

"Hey!  Guys!" Willow stepped between them quickly as the tension escalated.  "Fight about who's right or wrong later.  Right now, we have two injured people who need major help instead of major arguing."

Buffy bit down hard to keep the words in her throat, finally nodding in agreement.  "Willow and I can take it from here." 

"If you need anything." Riley hesitated.

"I'll call you." Buffy flexed her fingers slowly and forced out a nearly inaudible Thank You.

"The others will be in Sunnydale soon.  We'll take care of them." He paused for a moment, gazing down at Cara sadly.  "I'm sorry to drop this on you but I can't.  After what happened.  I can't bring her onto the base."

"It's alright."

"The men don't…they don't want her there."

"I understand." She wanted him to leave so she could open the bag and get it over with.  Be traumatized all at once instead of drawing out the agony.  "Don't worry about it."

"Let me know.  If he doesn't make it." With that, he finally turned up the stairs and his steps faded into silence.

Buffy took a deep breath and knelt down beside the bag, looking up once in search of Willow's reassuring presence.  "You don't have to be here if you don't want to."  

"I'll stay."

She felt rather than heard Willow move across the room.  Felt soft fingers slip into her hand as she tried to find the strength to take hold of the zipper and face what was inside.  It felt unreal.  Not Angel.  The vampire who had lived for hundreds of years and managed to keep himself undusted.  Had gone to hell and come back with immortality intact.  Now he was lying on her basement floor, hidden and still as the death he had cheated so long ago.  Fingers touched the metal, cringing at the grating sound as miniature teeth slipped apart.  The smell of burnt flesh.  She kept pulling.  Hands were pushing aside the black canvas and tears flooded into her eyes at the scorched skin and fabric that didn't even resemble Angel.

"Willow." It was a plea for something she didn't even know how to voice.  A request for someone, anyone, to make what she was seeing a little less terrible.  

"He's still here, Buffy." Willow whispered soothingly.  

Buffy could see her hands shaking as she helped peel away the canvas and lift the damaged body carefully onto a blanket.  Numbly, she found a pair of scissors and began to cut away the bits of burnt cloth, taking care not to tug on the pieces stuck firmly to the skin.  His eyes didn't open.  There was no heartbeat or breath to search for, to confirm that he would eventually wake up and be Angel.  Be more than just oozing flesh.  A lightweight cotton sheet settled over his body, sticking to the worst parts and making him look like a corpse waiting to be autopsied.  The clothes he'd worn were little more than a pile of ash to be swept into the dustpan.  They moved to Cara next, cutting away the heavy cloth around her burns.  Beneath the fabric were dark bruises and a dozen more wounds in various stages of healing.  Another sheet.  Another body waiting.  This one was breathing evenly but no less terrifying.  

"I need to run home for supplies." Willow took her hand again.  "With a bit of luck, I might be able take these down to second degree burns and I can pick up blood on the way back."

"I can do it."

"No.  You need to stay in case they wake up." 

Buffy tried to swallow away the lump in her throat, "Please tell me what to do, Will.  I need to be doing something.  I can't just sit here and not do anything." Her voice was shaking, tears threatening to spill out onto her cheeks.

"Grab some towels and rags.  While I'm gone, soak them in cold water and try to cool down the burns.  Can you do that?"

She nodded, numb and wordless.

"I'll be back as soon as I can."  The comfort of Willow disappeared.

Wiping away tears, Buffy forced her limbs into action.  Every clean rag she could find and half of the hand towels in the house were piled next to Angel and Cara with a large bowl of water and ice cubes set gently on the floor.  Her stomach churned rebelliously as she began to dab gingerly at the weeping burns, washing away the bits of ash and skin.  Trying not to break the fragile healing process as it slowly began to repair what had been lost.  She settled into a routine of dip, dab, dip again; her focus kept strictly on the movements of her hands.  

"You sure picked a lousy way to get here." She told Angel softly.  "I mean, with all the sewers in Los Angeles and the modern miracle of tinted windows, you'd think that you could have found something less painful.  And if you wanted me to play nurse, you could've just asked."

The silence was deafening.

            It was ironic, Spike mused as he signed his name on the marriage license, that neither of them were using their real names.  That both of their past lives and former monikers had been left behind.  He couldn't keep the smile off of his face as he pushed the paper back across the mahogany desk and reached for Faith's hand. 

            "Everything's in order then." An older man with wispy gray hair and a round Santa Clause face, the minister had managed to squeeze them in that afternoon before his tee time.  "You're headed to California?"

            "I have family there." Faith lied easily, practicing an innocently angelic smile.

            "Thought we'd surprise them." Spike gave her hand a noticeable squeeze as he tried not to laugh.  

            "I'm sure they'll be very happy for you both." Light brown eyes sparkled and the minister smoothed the marriage license carefully as he tucked it into an envelope.  "Once we're through with the formalities, you can take this over to the count clerk's office in the courthouse and get an official copy.  It might be a bit of a wait but they can give you a better idea of when you can pick it up."

            "Thank you." 

            "Now, I expect that neither of you really want a lot of fanfare." He waited for their nods before continuing.  "Still, I'd like to spend a few minutes and talk about marriage.  I see a lot of couples just like you.  Happy, smiling, and very much in love.  When they leave my office, I know that every other one of those couples is probably going to end in divorce.  Pretty frightening statistic when you think about it.  About how much you invest in a relationship and how much you stand to lose.  Marriage isn't a trivial consideration."  

            Spike tried to find the right balance between appearing interested in what the man had to say and avoiding the thousand-yard stare as his brain strained to escape the sentimental preaching about marriage and family values.  If he'd figured anything out in his near century and a half as a vampire, it was that human beings loved to ramble about values and morality without actually believing in any of their own words.

            "These days, you pay a fee and sign your name and you're legally wed.  Just have to say I do and that's all there is to it.  But getting married is a lot easier than staying married.  Especially now that our lives are so hectic, with so many demands on our time and each other, which couples didn't have in years past.  Just making a living can tear a marriage apart.  The most important thing you can do is build your relationship, your friendship, and your respect for each other.  Lay a firm foundation that you can add to through the years so that when troubles come along you'll be ready for them.  You'll be strong enough to keep your marriage intact despite everything around you.  And even if things begin to fall apart, I want you to remember that if the foundation is good, then everything else can be fixed." 

            The minister seemed rather pleased with his speech and Spike couldn't think of any response other than a solemn nod.  He felt like a student bowing to the teacher's ancient wisdom, remaining silently rapt as pearls of knowledge were imparted.  Where Spike the vampire would have probably come up with a few snide remarks and probably eaten the poor man, he settled for what he hoped was a patient smile and waited for the talking to end.  

Once this was done, it was a hop and a skip over the California border and another afternoon to pull into Sunnydale.  Despite her best intentions, his new wife would probably be fast asleep by the time the Welcome to Sunnydale sign appeared.  Normally a powerhouse of energy, she had slept nearly twelve hours a day since they'd left Boston.  A symptom of her pregnancy that he had been unprepared for, it left him with nothing to do but drive and while it was good for making time across the country, it wasn't as beneficial for his own energy levels.  

It had also given him a lot of time to think.  About Sunnydale and the Scoobies.  About his life and about Faith.  Reaching into the depths of what might have been a soul, he realized that he could face them.  That the fears keeping him away were petty and ridiculous.  He couldn't control their reactions to his being alive, couldn't predict what they would say or do.  In the end, he wanted the same thing he'd always wanted.  Acceptance.  But it wouldn't be any skin off of his back if they never saw him as anything but a vampire.  

This return trip, he noted, was more nostalgic than the others.  Not here to kill anyone or seek revenge, just coming back to a place he'd once lived to see old acquaintances.  Faith had explained that Giles had set up shop when he returned to Sunnydale, the windows of the new Magic Box once again lined with books and magic supplies.  This time it had direct tunnel access to the military base on the outskirts of the city.  At least the old Watcher would be back in his element.  Xander, Willow, Buffy, and Dawn were all still there.  Still fighting the good fight.  But that was where the similarities ended.  He was returning to the Hellmouth with a heartbeat and a wife, and for something that couldn't be more different, it felt oddly familiar.  

            There were I Do's and a Pronounce You Man and Wife that Spike barely heard amidst the clamoring of his own thoughts, staying on automatic pilot as they shook hands with the minister and followed the paperwork rainbow to the pot of legal gold at the end.  Faith was quiet.  He caught her glancing around the bustling Nevada city with almost desperate interest and knew she was trying not to think of Sunnydale.  Trying not to think of the confrontation that was barreling toward them.  She was probably expecting the worst, that she would lose all the ground she had gained and the fragile friendship she had stitched together with Buffy and the rest of the gang.  Family.  Despite her own fervent denial, he knew that Sunnydale was the closest to home, the Scoobies closest to family, that she'd ever had.  And he knew that some part of her hated that fact.

            He was married.  It didn't feel all that different.  Nothing had really changed in the walk from the quiet chapel to the courthouse except that his ears were chilled from the icy wind.  Maybe it would sink in later.  Maybe he'd simply gone through so much in the past months that he was numb to change and drama. Or maybe he was still holding his breath and waiting for it all to ripped away from him again.  Hence Sunnydale.  Traveling over state lines and endless roads, he realized that it didn't matter who knew about his past.  Didn't matter if Birkman crowed it from the rooftops to the entire world and took out an ad in the New York Times.  Sunnydale was for Faith and the baby.  Because he couldn't keep them safe and keep them alive without help.  

            And something was changing.  He could feel it in his skin and blood, like a thousand eyes peering out from shadows and sunlight as they waited for the unknown something to happen.  Even Faith had been on edge the last few days, quieter than usual and reluctant to talk about the nightmares that left her pale and trembling.  She'd muttered something about her Slayer sense going wonky that morning, rubbing at the back of her neck and turning several times to reassure herself that nothing and no one was behind them.  There was no joking comment from his lips because he'd been doing the same thing for several days.  Maybe it was winter seeping cold fingers into his bones.  

            "Ready?" 

            He'd been so lost in the surroundings that he hadn't registered their return to the car until Faith's voice cut through his thoughts.  "Yeah.  You alright?"

            "Five by five."

            He waited for the click of her seatbelt before slipping into his own and starting up the car.  Once more into the breach.  Dotted lines, solid lines, all racing by as he slipped through traffic and settled into the easy rhythm of driving.

            "We should see Buffy first."

            "Easiest for last?"

            "Yeah."

            The ring on his left hand shone reassuringly in the pale sunlight bouncing through the windshield.  "Who's easiest then?"

            "Giles.  At least he'll pretend he's not freaked."

            "Right." He did a quick roll call in his head, trying to order them by unpleasantness.  

Even with four years of space between painful memories that had given time to think and process the doomed relationship he'd had with Buffy, he was bracing for hurt or anger, for that instant before she shuttered away her emotions and pulled up the stone façade she used as a shield.  It would be more difficult for Faith, who was still struggling to define the Slayer dynamic that seemed to bind them and pull them apart at the same moment.  There was Dawn.  Brave little Dawn who had hung out in his crypt listening to stories and who knew what it was like to have a lifetime of memories that weren't real.  Yeah, he wanted to see Dawn again.  And there was a sort of awkward soft spot that he had for Willow, knowing that she had tried just as hard as the rest of them to keep him undusted.  Maybe harder.  Xander and Giles fell toward the easy end of the scale because he didn't care all that much what they thought anyway.  But they still needed to be told.

It was a bittersweet realization.  As hard as he'd tried and as much as he'd tried to forget, to move on, even to hate them, they were all the family he had.

Note: One of the reviewers for the last chapter had a very good point.  That trying to tie Season 7 canon into this story wasn't really necessary since I threw canon out the window.  I wasn't actually trying to tie in to 7 with Faith's little tour through the past.  Mostly, I was just trying to hit the significant milestones in her life.  I wasn't a big fan of Faith/Wood but they made enough of it in the show that I felt it needed to be mentioned.  It also gave me the opportunity to say unequivocally that both he and the potentials are no longer alive.  The reference to Kennedy was made in the same fashion because as much as I'd like to forget they ever created that character, I can't just pretend she never happened.  Wouldn't that be lovely? 


	44. Like To Like

**Note: **A lot of plot and chattiness in this one.  Luba, your fantasies are truly hilarious, so wish I'd thought of them.  I tried to work something in for you but it never quite meshed.  So sorry.For the detail Nazis, there's a light switch at the top of the stairs in Buffy's basement and I have conflicting screencaps for the bottom.  In later seasons, there's something that could be a switch on the wall but in early seasons there's only the circuit breaker box.  For the sake of easy movement and saving Spike a trip up the stairs, I went with a switch at the bottom.  Okay.  Get the tomatoes ready,  you may need them.

Like To Like – 

            "I'm home!"  Silence greeted Leia as she let herself into the apartment.  "Willow?"  

            It wasn't the silence that curled her fingers around the keys so they didn't jangle together.  A string of oddly shaped bells calling out through the stillness inside.  She was used to silence.  This was different.  Her sandals brushed against the floor, the door shut and locked behind her as she moved toward the kitchen and the designated spot where notes were left.  Sure enough.  Willow's script was slanted and hurried as it announced that there was yet another crisis at the Summers house.

            After carefully putting the note back on the refrigerator, she set the silenced keys on the counter as softly as possible.  Nothing seemed out of place, the only sounds were the hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock in the living area.  But there was something she couldn't put her finger on.  As if all the life had been sucked out of the air.  

            Better safe than sorry, she kept her footsteps nearly silent as she crept through the kitchen and living room.  Looking for anything that meant she was just leaping at shadows.  Minus a redhead, the bedroom and bathroom were exactly as she'd left them that morning.  The smaller room that she used as a workroom was the last on the route. There was nothing but her easel and a half empty canvas, the smell of oil paint and turpentine, and the reminder that she needed to reorganize her brushes.  With a sigh of relief, she headed back to the kitchen and tried to shake off the creepy crawly sensation itching along her shoulders and neck.  

            "Will's gone, that's all." She told the apartment, slipping off her sandals and tossing them into a corner.  "Gotten used to coming home to her music, chanting, whatever."

            "Beats being lonely." A smooth, male voice responded.

            Leia felt heart and lungs springing to action as she whirled around to search for the source of the voice and something to protect herself.  An older man with a friendly smile was sitting in the easy chair across the room.  He hadn't been there before.  She would have noticed.  Frowning, she took a wary step toward the phone without taking her gaze off of him.

            "Please don't.  I'm not here to hurt you.  Just a pleasant chat."

            "You broke into my apartment to chat?" She kept moving toward the phone, glancing around for any more nasty surprises.

            "No harm was done, I promise.  You're safer than you know." The smile widened.

            "What do you want?"

            "Where are my manners?" He chuckled as though he'd made a joke.  "Forgive me.  My name is Holland.  I represent the law firm of Wolfram and Hart and I've come to make you a proposition."

            "Not much for lawyers." Leia narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest defensively.

            "Yes.  Your father is a lawyer isn't he?  Quite well known in some circles."

            "How do you know my father?" Her fists tightened involuntarily as the temperature of the room dropped.

            "How did I know that Leia Reilly is actually Leia Banner, daughter of Marion and Elizabeth Banner?" Pale hands folded primly in his lap and he was still smiling, a death mask of politeness.  "That you were disowned by your family and friends.  That your own mother considers you to be dead.  Do you think they'd rather you were dead?"

            "Get the hell out of my apartment."

            "And the woman you sacrificed all that for?  Left your family and your home to be with her.  Where is she now?"

            "I said get out."

            "You're a strong woman.  I admire that." Holland continued to smile.  "All you've been through.  She doesn't really understand, does she?  She's always had those friends of hers.  And a family who is terribly busy but still acknowledges her existence.  She'll never really understand what it's like."

            Leia stumbled against the bookshelf as she tried to back away from him.   "So?  So my family's not perfect.  So they're a bunch of psycho, uptight, religious conservatives.  So what?  It doesn't matter now.  Not anymore."

            "I agree.  You've done quite well without them.  Nice apartment, doing what you love.  Found a woman you could love, who could help you learn to really trust again.  It's quite beautiful.  You're a success story, really.  Growing up, taught that you were wrong and perverse and damned to Hell for all eternity because you were attracted to women.  You were hated and feared and they cast you out like a demon.  Despite all that, you've found your place.  Very important, finding where one belongs in this universe."

            "You said something about a proposition." She reminded him icily.

            "Well, you see, Wolfram and Hart has the most amazing resources and I enjoy helping a good cause."

            "I don't believe you."

            "You don't believe anyone, do you?" Holland motioned for her to sit down.  "Of course, you're right to be cautious and there is something we'd like you to do for us."

            "Always the catch." She shook her head.  "Forget it."

            "Hear me out." 

            "Talk fast."

            "I can tell you a few things about your future.  Now, I'm not a psychic or anything like that but I do have the benefit of knowing a great deal about those you've chosen to associate with.  I can tell you what will most likely happen to you if you decide to remain here with her, with them, in Sunnydale." 

            "Who says I want to know?"

            "We all want to know what the future holds for us.  It's that dangling carrot forever out of reach.  If we'd only known, we could have avoided the pain.  Could have helped someone, saved someone.  We all want to know."

            Reluctantly, she moved away from the bookshelf and sat down uneasily on the edge of the sofa cushion.  "Fine.  You've got ten minutes and then I'm calling the police."

            "Most gracious of you." He leaned back into the chair and moved his deathly pale hands to the armrests.  "Your new friends and your new lover have quite a few secrets, but you already know that.  You know all about secrets.  How many times has Miss Rosenberg been called for an emergency?  How many nights has she returned home in the early morning hours, perhaps with stains or dust on her clothing?"

            "Everyone has secrets." Leia answered stiffly.  She'd kept her own until high school had ended and she'd realized that she could no longer live under the tyrannical fist of her father.  Downhill from there, she'd told the few friends she had made since she'd left the dry heat of Utah behind. This prodigal child had never returned and never would, even if it meant losing her family.

            "And that's what makes the world go round, isn't it?" He seemed to be enjoying himself.  "But I can tell you now without any doubt or hesitation that those secrets will drive you and Miss Rosenberg apart.  They will always be her first priority.  Miss Summers will always be her first priority."

            "She's not in love with Buffy." Leia answered quickly.

            "She doesn't have to be.  The ties that bind them together are thicker than blood.  Like family.  Of course, that's one thing you don't have much experience with so I don't expect you to understand.  Just believe me when I tell you that when she has to make a choice, and the day will come, she will choose her friends over you."

            Leia swallowed down the aching in her chest, forcing her expression to remain impassive and uncaring.  "And?"

            "And you can feel it coming.  Feel it creeping up on you like the winter sweeping in to turn the flowers black.  The seams are beginning to show the wear and tear as you try to keep from getting too close to her, knowing that she's going to leave you.  But you want to get close, you want it more than anything because with her, you don't have to be so strong."

            "Now you're going to tell me that you can make her stay.  Sorry, not buying.  Even if you could, it wouldn't be worth it knowing that it wasn't really her decision."

            "I'm afraid that this relationship is doomed to fail, Leia.  Your place is not with her or her friends."

            "Then where is it?"

            "What I can offer you, Leia, is the life you've always wanted.  The family you've always wanted."

            "You can't give me that."

            "And if I could?" The smile faded just slightly.  "What would you be willing to do for us?"

            Time suspended as the happy memories of her childhood untainted by pain and hurt danced through her mind.  Seeing something other than heartbreak in her mother's face, more than disgust in her father's eyes.  What it would be like to see her sisters again and finally meet her nieces and nephews.  To buy a Mother's Day card and Christmas presents and be able to send them without knowing that they would be returned, unopened, before Christmas even arrived.  What would she be willing to do to go home again?

            "What do you want from me?"

            "It's quite simple, actually." His smile was back full force, nearly blinding her with its false sincerity.  "A rather unusual houseguest arrived at the Summers house this morning.  I believe that's where Willow is right now.  The guest is a young woman.  About nineteen years old, she five feet ten inches tall with brown hair.  Hard to miss."

            "And?"

            "She's also quite dangerous and quite insane."

            "Is Willow alright?" 

            "She's safe for the moment but you're right to be worried."  Reaching into his suit coat, he pulled out a photograph and held it out to her.   "This is the woman, although her hair is a good deal longer now.  The man next to her is a friend of Miss Summers'.  He goes by the name of Angel."

            Leia scrutinized the picture carefully.  The girl's cropped hair brought out strong cheekbones in a serious face, her clothes dark and practical.  No make-up.  Heavy combat boots.  The man named Angel was gesturing toward something out of the camera's view, also dressed in simple, dark clothing.  She could see the shadows of other people and windows behind them looking out into a cityscape.  Just a girl, she didn't look all that dangerous.  Or crazy.  

            "We know they're at the Summers home and we know that Miss Summers and Miss Rosenberg are with them.  There is also reason to believe that they were both severely injured in an accident that occurred in Los Angeles this morning." 

            "You want to know what happened?"

            "We know what happened.  We don't know what they're doing in Sunnydale and how long they intend to stay."

            "Why don't you just bug the phones?" Leia placed the photograph carefully on her lap.  "You said yourself that they keep secrets from me.  Why would they tell me about any of this?"

            Holland nodded, "Excellent points but pictures and audiotapes can only do so much.  What we really need from you is the human touch."

            "You want a spy." She was sick of his dancing around the subject.

            "We want as much as you're willing to give.  As much as you're willing to do to have your family back." No longer friendly, his smile now seemed cold and hollow.  "Bear in mind that you will be rewarded accordingly.  Think of it this way.  Be a spy, as you call it, pick up a few bits and pieces from Miss Rosenberg and in return, we'll make sure you reconcile with your sister Leanne and her two sons."

            "And for all of them?  For the rest of my family."

            "Blood for blood, Miss Banner.  Blood for blood."

            Sunnydale had grown.  Spike couldn't help wondering just how the little town managed to thrive when it was built over something as volatile and dangerous as the Hellmouth.  Then again, half the population of California seemed to be built over one hidden menace or another.  Probably should have changed their motto to The State of Living Dangerously.

            He remembered standing beneath that tree and watching the window.  For hours.  Just hoping to catch a glimpse of blond hair, just a whiff of whatever perfume or lotion she was trying at the moment.  All the hope his black heart could hold until it became the very fabric of the demon soul.  Infused, poisoned, with the one emotion demons were supposed to be truly incapable of.  Hope.  Buffy had never given him love.  Never done more than throw scraps to a desperate dog.  But she had given him hope in the worst of possible ways with the best of all possible results.  The significance of The Tree was staggering.  It had started here and somehow it was fitting that he'd come back again to The Tree.  The house, the town.  The place that had been his ruin and his salvation, so inextricably tied together that there were moments he could no longer tell them apart.

            What now?  Were there words he could forge and sharpen as he waltzed through her doorway unfettered by the need for an invitation?  Explain that he had a wife and a baby on the way and that he was terrified.  For the tiny life inside of the woman he had never dreamed of holding.  For a life that he didn't deserve and never would.  Redemption was not earned.  It was given, bestowed.  It was granted.  And he'd found favor somehow.  He'd been the chosen one in a game of deadly roulette where souls were bartered and damned for one mistake in an alley at night.

            None of it mattered now.

            If he could do nothing else but open the door and lay himself down, everything he was and everything he had ever been, just to find some certainty that Faith would never fall.  For the first time, he hated that she was the Slayer.  That she had been born and Chosen to bear the burden.  He wanted to lift it away from her strong shoulders, take it all and anything else he had to carry.  Any bargain, any pain, any damnation.  To keep her safe.

            "Are we there yet?" Faith stretched in the passenger seat as she opened her eyes.  "God, my back hurts."

            "Here." He reached out to massage the tense muscles along her spine, searching out the knots that had formed in her lower back in the last hours of driving.  Any more words and his voice would break.  He would break.  Because there was nothing he could do and no one could promise him that she would be safe.  That either of them would live to see the baby grow up.  

            "Guess we should get this over with then." A lazy smile begged for the camera he didn't have and the memory he couldn't hold tightly enough.  "Looks like the party's at the Summers house tonight."  She motioned to the assortment of cars in the driveway and along the curb.

            "Scooby meeting probably." Spike hesitated just a moment longer to enjoy her warmth before slipping away the seatbelt and steeling himself for the worst possible reaction.  He couldn't even imagine what it would be but if his past receptions were anything to judge by, it wouldn't be pleasant on his side of the fence.

            "Maybe they know what's going on." Her voice was almost inaudible as she untangled herself from seat and blanket, joints cracking as she uncurled from the car and twisted into a full stretch.  Pregnancy had sobered her, pushed away some of her humor and thirst for adventure as she struggled to comprehend the weight of her new responsibilities.  Where she would have laughed and joked she was now thoughtful and restrained.  The wicked gleam in her eye that meant she was itching to test the limits of being a Slayer had changed to restraint.

            Intuitively, he would never get the Old Faith back.  What was gone was gone, swept out the door to make room for Motherhood.  There was a twinge of longing, watching her, seeing the defiant set of her shoulders as she prepared to face the world head on.  Maybe he loved New Faith even more.  For her depth, for her strength, for the determination that he could see in every graceful motion.  

            Curtains and shades were drawn over the windows, isolating the people inside the house in their own world.  Researching, no doubt.  Searching for more answers to the unanswerable questions.  The hair on the back of his neck prickled, a shiver slicing down his spinal cord as they climbed the porch steps and held their breath for what awaited them within.  Muffled footsteps.  Spike fought the urge to turn and run, keeping one hand firmly wrapped around Faith's.  An anchor for him rather than her.  Golden light spilled out onto the boards, his eyes blinking and trying to focus on the slender frame silhouetted in the doorway.

            Any clever and witty hello he had memorized disappeared when it hit him.  To his side was the crackle and burn that was Faith, her power and her strength.  He was used to it now.  The onslaught of energy from Buffy caught him off guard, sizzling through his skin.  It was deeper and steadier than Faith, immense and powerful.  Was he the only one who felt it?

            "Sorry to drop in like this, B."  Faith shifted nervously.

Buffy pulled her gaze from Spike with difficulty.  "Tell me this isn't, cause he's standing there and he's not all dusty.  So tell me it's not him.  Because if it is him and you didn't tell me."

Spike was beginning to feel lightheaded. "Buffy."

"Oh God."  He hadn't expected the color to drain from her cheeks as she stared at him with something akin to horror.  Hadn't expected her to step back from the doorway and dully wave them into the house.  

Half expecting a barrier, he stepped through the door and followed Buffy into the living area.  Either the Scooby Gang had doubled in size or Faith was right about the party.  There were people he didn't recognize and some he hadn't seen in years.  Not entirely a bad thing.  Only silence greeted them.  He watched the meaningful glances volley around the room with the blinding speed of gossip.

He was having trouble breathing.  Every hair was standing on end and every inch of skin was drowning in a torrent of electricity.  From Faith, from Buffy.  His eyes found the third Slayer without difficulty, tucked in the far corner with painful red burns licking up the side of her face and bandages visible under the t-shirt she was wearing.  She roared like a hurricane trapped in a bottle, furious and destructive.  Lips were moving around him but he couldn't hear anything over the thundering of the Slayers.  Faith was there, hands reaching for him as the room tilted and tipped under the weight of power.  

"Spike!" Her voice broke through the crashing waves as he stumbled.

"Bloody hell." His own voice was a gasp, trying to suck the burning air into his lungs.  

Head spinning, he sunk down to the floor and bowed his head.  Hands trembled with the overload, fingers splayed out against the floor as he struggled just to breathe.  He could hear shouting in the distance an instant before strong hands clamped down on his arms, searing into skin and muscles.  Carpet scratched and wood squeaked as he was dragged back toward the door.  He was on fire, head screaming and spinning blindly.  Choking on the cool night air, he was too weak to protest as frigid water sprayed over his face and chest.  

"What's going on?"  That was Buffy.  Rock steady and immovable.  Unfamiliar to him, the third Slayer answered sharply but he couldn't understand the words, hearing only the echo of the ocean's fury in her voice.

It came together in one brilliant vision an instant before consciousness abandoned him.  There was something whispering in his memories, trying to rattle loose.  Something important.  Reaching for the flash of understanding, he grabbed hold and prayed that he would remember when he finally opened his eyes again.

            "What the hell was that?" Faith demanded, furious and shaken by the sight of Spike lying unconscious on the front lawn, blood trickling over his lips.  Cara didn't answer, motionless as a statue with the garden hose in her hand shooting a heavy spray of cold water over Spike.  Half terrified that he was once again going to be ripped away from her, Faith yanked the hose away and confronted the Slayer.  "You have two seconds to explain what the fuck you're doing or there's only gonna be two Slayers left."  

            No response.

Her arm caught as her fingers closed into a fist and she turned to see Buffy shaking her head somberly.  "Don't do it, Faith." There was more in Buffy's voice than Faith could understand.  

            "Why not?" Faith rubbed her arm angrily where Buffy had grabbed it.   

            "Let her explain."

            "Explain what?  That she's fucking crazy?"  Faith snapped resentfully.  Ignoring the wet grass, she knelt down to ease his head and shoulders onto her lap, wiping away the blood gently.  His skin felt hot despite the soaked fabric dripping icy water down her hands and legs.

            "I'm still waiting for an explanation of why he's on my lawn." Buffy folded her arms tightly.  "Why he isn't a big pile of dust?"

            "Does it really matter?" Faith glared up at Cara.

            "Hey, Sunnydale here.  I have a Back From the Dead T-Shirt myself.  It's probably epic and has something to do with magic urn thingies and snakes.  I want to know long you've known."  The muscles in Buffy's jaw twitched.  "How long has he been alive?  Did you even kill him?  Or was that a lie?"

            "Fuck you, B." Faith heard her voice shake.  "Why do you even care?"

            "I deserve to know."

            "Maybe he didn't want you to know."

Buffy's face hardened, "We've been trying to reach you all afternoon and Iverson's been looking for a week.  Where have you been?"

"None of your fucking business."

"It's everyone's business now.  Half of Cara's team was slaughtered two weeks ago.  Angel's in the basement with burns covering every inch of his body, he can barely speak or move.  Want to know why?"  Buffy took a step forward menacingly.  "Because there are a few million vampires who know that once we're dead, there's nothing left to stop them.  It's not about you or what you want, or what I want.  It's not even about us anymore."

"And this is the, why can't you be more responsible lecture?  Save it for someone who gives a fuck." Her grip on Spike's shoulders tightened involuntarily.  

"Which, of course, was never you."

"Don't tell me about responsibility.  I'm so goddamn responsible it's disgusting."  Shivering with cold, fatigue, and the aftermath of the adrenaline, she pulled Spike closer.  "How's your end of the Slayer baby campaign?  Found someone who can measure up to your Holier Than Thou standards yet?  You're the one who's all touchy-feely about getting knocked up.  How's that going for you?"

"Shut your mouth." Buffy ground out furiously.  

"Stop acting like you're the only one who fucking cares." 

"You have no idea what I care about."

Faith shook her head bitterly.  "You always thought you had everyone figured out but you can't see past your own fucking nose."

"That's funny coming from you, Miss Drama Queen.  You're so misunderstood, your life is so hard." Knuckles whitened as her hands curled into fists.  "Let me tell you something about pain, Faith.  It's having everyone you've ever loved taken away from you.  It's about fighting every moment of every day when all you want is to just stop.  It's being told that you're broken, that you're defective.  That the one thing you want more than anything else is the one thing you won't ever have.  Let me tell you about my end.  It's pain and blood and hormone shots, it's having every inch of my body poked and prodded and at the end of all that, it's only break even odds."  A passing car sounded like a thunderstorm in the tense silence before she finished with deceptive softness, "You should have told me the truth."   

Faith bit her lower lip to keep from saying anything, looking down at Spike to avoid the fury and pain she could see in Buffy's eyes.  Watching all the progress they had made swept away in the same old tide of secrets and lies.  Lips opened without any sound, emotions raging as she tried to sort through what was real and what could be blamed on hormones or the need for sleep.  Finally she took a shaky breath and painfully forced the words out of her mouth, "I'm sorry."

Buffy's face remained impassive, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's all so fucked up." He looked so peaceful in her arms, so quiet.  Her voice broke as tears flooded into her eyes, spilling down her cheeks.  "When I found him again, in Boston, I called but I couldn't tell you it was him because I didn't know if he was going to make it.  Then I was too afraid that if I told anyone, it would ruin everything."

"How would it ruin anything?  How?" Buffy demanded.

"I don't know!" Faith brushed the tears away impatiently.  "I'm sorry I'm not fucking perfect.  That I don't have it all figured out and I don't fucking know what you want from me.  What any of you want from me."  She waited for the words to snap back with a vengeance.  For Buffy to realize that she was too tired and too frightened to fight back any longer.  That she would say and do anything Buffy wanted just to get it over with, play along with whatever rules the Scoobies wanted if they would just help Spike.  The silence kept going and she kept waiting.

"Is he okay?" Buffy finally asked, still rigid and unyielding.

Faith brushed her fingers over his throat, "Pulse is strong and he's still breathing."

"He's breathing?" 

"Is he human?" Cordelia's voice was harsh reminder that the others had followed the macabre parade, crowding onto the porch with tense curiosity.

"I think so.  I mean, sort of." Faith stumbled over the words as she realized that the entire gang had just witnessed her breakdown.  "He's still strong and fast like a vamp but everything else is human.  We don't know what happened, he doesn't remember.  He didn't even remember me or Sunnydale or anything until a couple months ago."

"So he's human.  But with superpowers." Xander glanced around the group quickly.  "Is anyone else still stuck on the 'It's Spike' part?  Having a hard time wrapping the old brain around that one.

"He's like us." Buffy seemed to relax a little.  "Like a Slayer.  Only male."

"He's not a Slayer." Oblivious to the shocked looks at the sound of her voice, Cara was still watching Spike carefully.  

"What do you mean?  How did you know what to do, Cara?"  

"Who says I did?" Cara shrunk away from Buffy reactively, a note of defiant mockery in her voice that was incongruous with what Faith knew about the Slayer.

"Do you know what he is?"

Cara remained silent.

"If you know something then you need to tell us."

Faith watched the exchange with fascination, with Buffy struggling to remain calm and reach through the raging walls behind Cara's unreadable eyes.  Like talking to a small child or wild animal.  A cramp in her leg reminded her that she was still kneeling on the damp grass with Spike cradled in her lap.  "B?  Could you help me?  We should probably get him dried off or something."  She hoped it didn't sound too much like begging.

"Right." Buffy looked a little confused, trying to focus on two fronts simultaneously.  "Would you, I mean, would it be alright if the guys took care of him?"

"Not done with the Inquisition?" Faith tried to smile and glanced up toward Wesley.  "Think you can handle this, Watcher?  Let us girls duke it out for a bit more."

"Whatever you need.  I'll get Gunn to help me."

"I'm sure Dawn will be more than helpful." Buffy added quickly with a meaningful look for her sister.  "Thank you."

It hurt to let go of him, to watch Gunn and Wesley carry him inside the house, door shutting softly and cutting her off from the sight of him.  She trusted Wesley to take care of him and knew that Dawn would be at his side the moment she saw him.  He was in the very best of hands even if those hands weren't hers.  

"Cara." Buffy focused on the Slayer once again.  "Please listen to me."  Cautiously, she reached one hand out toward Cara.

"Don't touch me." Cara sidled away quickly.  The anger in her voice was familiar but Faith was surprised at the raw pain, as though the very thought of human contact was too horrible to comprehend.

"I just want to talk." Buffy keep her voice smooth and even.  

"Good luck getting anything out of Miss Broody." Cordelia snorted contemptuously.  "This mess is because of her and she won't tell us anything."

"Cordelia." Giles cautioned softly.

            "I'm just saying." She started down the porch steps purposefully.  "This whole thing is because they're trying to kill her.  I don't know about you guys but I'd like to know why."

            "You know why." Fred glanced nervously between Cara and Cordelia.

            "Yeah?  She's got a bunch of Lilah's secrets in that head of hers and we don't have a clue what they are.  Shouldn't we know what we're protecting?  Those secrets are probably going to get us all killed just like they nearly killed Angel." 

            "Cordy." Buffy's voice was taut.  

            "Has anyone even asked her what she remembers?"

            "Please.  Just stop."

            "Maybe now that she knows something about Captain Peroxide reincarnate, you'll actually listen to me." Angrily, she stalked toward Cara.  "I don't care if you are crazy, you know more than you're letting on.  So start talking."  

Cara remained stubbornly silent, her dark eyes burning hatefully.  

            Faith was about to breathe a sigh of relief when Cordelia appeared to be on the verge of giving up.  Instead, she took hold of Cara's shoulder and yanked her around.  The crack of skin against skin was like a gunshot in the tense silence as Cordelia struck Cara across the face.  Before the rest of the group could register what had happened, Cara leapt onto Cordelia with a furious growl, hands wrapping around her neck as they tumbled onto the lawn.  Fighting against the much stronger Slayer, Cordelia's hands began to glow as they pushed against Cara's shoulders.

            "Cordy!  No!" Buffy was the first to reach the struggle, her arms clamping tightly around Cara's waist and trying to drag her off of Cordelia.  

Faith tensed as the fight rolled over the lawn, warily ready to jump into the fray if needed.  The rest managed to stay clear as Cara fought to shake Buffy away while Fred and Xander slowly pried her fingers away from Cordelia's throat.  Gasping and choking, Cordelia scrambled toward safety, her face chalk white and frightened. 

"Wesley!" Buffy shouted, grabbing onto Cara's heavy braid and using it to twist and force the Slayer onto the ground.  One hand gripping the back of her neck, she held Cara face down against the lawn until the Slayer stopped fighting.  Pushing through the crowd on the porch, Wesley looked wearily determined, the needle of a hypodermic syringe gleaming in his hand.  Kneeling down on the lawn, he gripped one of Cara's wrists to get a better angle and sunk the tip of the needle into her bicep.

            "No!" The Slayer's furious scream was muffled by the grass, thrashing against Buffy and Wesley and trying to get away from the needle.  Slowly, gently, Buffy released her hold and moved away.  Both she and Wesley looked shaken, faces pale and drawn.

            "Thanks." Buffy murmured softly.

            "I'll take her." Wesley motioned toward the house.  "You should get some rest.  It's been a long day for everyone."

            "Will she be alright?"

            "It won't hurt her." He tucked the syringe back into a narrow case.  "The Council makes it exclusively for Slayers."

            "What did we learn about provoking the crazy Slayer?" Xander gently helped Cordelia onto the porch steps.

            "Perhaps a different method of interrogation would be more productive." Giles commented dryly from the back of the group, keeping one eye on Cara.  

            Faith shifted her position and noticed that Buffy was watching Cara intently, finally understanding the warning she'd given.  They couldn't cage Cara and they couldn't tie her down.  On the other hand, it was foolish verging on suicidal to allow her free reign among the group.  She had no doubt that Buffy had insisted on keeping Cara unrestrained and under the watchful eye of the Scoobies.  Still hoping that all Cara needed was the right environment and a little guidance to be the Slayer Buffy wanted her to be.  Surprisingly, there was no bitterness in the thought, just understanding and sorrow.  The alternative was much worse.

            "That bitch." Cordelia finally managed to choke out.  "She tried to kill me!"

             "I think it would be best if you kept your distance." Wesley told Cordelia softly, methodically checking and readjusting the gauze wrapped around Cara's burns.  "We can't be fighting each other right now.  You have to remember how hard this is for her to understand, especially around us."

            "I don't care!" Her voice was ragged and hoarse.  "What about us?  What about Angel?  She has to know.  She just has to." 

            "Cordy."

            "Forget it!" Furious, Cordelia left the steps and stormed back into the house.  Windows rattled as the door slammed behind her and the gang once more settled into an uneasy silence.

            "What's with her obsession with Cara?" Xander looked to Fred for answers.  

            "It's complicated." Wesley and Fred exchanged troubled looks.  "I'm sorry, Buffy."

            "Cordy's right." Buffy ignored the apology completely, eyes focusing on Cara.  "Someone needs to talk to her, get as much information as they can out of her.  Wes?"

"I'm not sure that I'm the best choice."

            "You're her Watcher.  Try."  Under Buffy's intense gaze, he nodded once before moving hesitantly toward his Slayer.  "For the rest of you, there's something for everyone.  Research, carving stakes.  Everyone needs to know how to defend themselves in case we get separated.  Even if just vampires show up, how many are we talking?  A few thousand?  A million?  Too many to fight all at once.  Some of the bad guys will come after the Slayers and some of them will go after friends and family.  They always do."  

            "Back to research Hell.  Never thought I'd say this but I'm glad the army boys are here." Xander rubbed his eyes tiredly.

            "As are we all, Xander." Giles opened the front door carefully, waving the group back into the house.  "If worse comes to worse, the base should prove to be a fairly secure hiding place."

            "Way to be Mr. Optimism, Giles." Faith could hear Xander ranting about never being told when vampires came back from Hell as he disappeared into the house.

"Riley will be here in the morning, he was going to send word out to the other teams and bring them in.  And we need to check in with the Council, see if they've heard about any unusual demon activity.  Until then, everyone should get some sleep." Buffy checked her watch quickly.  "The guys will need to be briefed or debriefed, deboxered, whatever.  Usually takes an hour or so but we can get back together after that's done.  All we can do is prepare the best we can and then wait.  If we have to run, we run.  If we have to hide, we hide.  We do whatever it takes." Determination crept back to Buffy's voice as she spoke, her shoulders straightening.  The rest of the group slowly filtered back into the house.  

Hesitating in the doorway, Willow spoke for the first time, the casual tone betrayed by the anxious look in her eyes.  "What about you?"

"I'll take care of this, Will." 

Faith cringed at the edge in Buffy's voice.  She hated this place and everything it stood for, hated that she couldn't keep her emotions in check, couldn't swallow down her tears and keep them from humiliating her.  

"You don't know what he is then." 

Faith shook her head, "Sorry."

"No problem.  More research.  If he's here, it's probably for a reason.  The Powers That Be have a thing for vampires with souls."  With a heavy sigh, Buffy turned her attention to Cara and Wesley.  "Do you need any help with her, Wes?"  

"No.  Thank you, Buffy."  They watch as he lifted Cara gently from the grass and carried her toward a silver sedan parked along the curb.  He eased her into the passenger seat tenderly, almost sadly.  

Once the car pulled away, there was nothing left but the soft chirping of a few scattered crickets in the flowerbeds and the hum of the streetlights.  Shaking from the cold water and the bone weariness that was being pregnant, Faith eased herself down onto the bottom porch step and waited for Buffy to finish ranting.  Now too tired to care.  She was surprised when the blonde sat down next to her, staring out into the street.  

"They're all afraid of her." Buffy began with unexpected sadness.  "They look at her and they see a killer."

"I know the feeling." Faith hugged her knees against her chest tightly.

"And I keep wondering if it's right for us to even have children.  If our power comes from darkness, makes us just a little bit less human." Buffy laughed bitterly.  "Maybe it would be for the best if we just let the Slayers die out.  Let that darkness end with us."

"Buffy?" 

"She's crazy, Faith.  I look in her eyes and I can see it.  But she's a Slayer.  How can I judge her?  How can fix her?  I couldn't even fix myself."  Her voice trembled with emotion.  "I'm just so tired of being the sane one, you know?"

"I turned out just fine, B."

"You weren't crazy.  Not like this.  I'm afraid to turn my back on her and I hate it.  Sorry for the yelling, my plate is pretty full of stress food right now." Buffy sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand and reminding Faith of a little girl.  "Is it really him?  I don't know why I'm surprised after everything I've seen.  It's just hard to believe."

"Took me a while." Faith kept still.  "I'm sorry.  About what you said earlier.  You can't have kids, can you?"

"Not without a lot of help.  Lucky me.  You should probably get checked out at some point." 

            "I'm pregnant." Faith winced as the words left her lips, tensing for Buffy to push away and the yelling to resume once again.

            "Oh." There was no movement, her response almost lost in the gentle breeze.  "It's his, isn't it?"

            "Yeah."

            "God, it still hurts." Buffy took a deep breath.  "The pain is our friend, right?  The pain is good."

            "Buffy, I'm sorry.  I didn't, this isn't how I wanted it to go."

            "It's of the good, Faith.  I mean, you guys are happy right?" 

            Faith felt a strange combination of relief and sadness as she nodded, "We're happy."

            "Then I'm happy for you.  It's good to be happy and that you make each other happy.  Do I have to keep going?"

            "It's cool."

            "Thank God.  I was starting to sound like a Hallmark card."  

            Faith patted Buffy's shoulder awkwardly, "I know it's a bitch, this whole Slayer gig.  And maybe we are dark and evil more often than not but you don't really think we should just give up, do you?  What about Save the World Buffy?  She go on vacation or something?"

            "Save the World Buffy turned into Prison Guard Buffy."  Ever so slightly, she leaned closer to Faith.  "I feel so guilty.  Wondering if there's nothing we can do for Cara and if we shouldn't just finish it.  I know I can't but part of me still thinks that's the only way."

            "Too much time with the Council, B.  You're starting to think like them."

            "Maybe I am.  Maybe I'm getting old and stuffy.  Next thing you'll know I'll be wearing tweed and polishing my bifocals."

            "Nah.  I'll put you out of your misery before it gets that far." Faith smiled gently.  

            "What about Cara's misery?  Do we put her out it?  Or is being miserable part of being a Slayer?"

            "Maybe."

            "I'm the longest living Slayer.  I've died twice and killed more demons than I can count but I still don't know what I'm doing.  What I should do.  Maybe that's part of being a Slayer to.  I never did get a copy of the manual."  Buffy sighed again, "When she does talk, it's all creepy and First Slayer-y.  There is only the kill, blah, blah, blah.  Maybe I wouldn't be as confused if I'd known what's-her-name who did the brain switch."

            "I met the bitch once.  Real piece of work and not in a good way."

            "Every now and then she'll say something that makes sense and I'll think we're getting her back.  Then she disappears again."

            "If anyone can get through to her, it's you.  Although tapping Wesley might not be the best idea, with his track record." Faith grinned as Buffy rolled her eyes.

            "Why can't my life be simple?" She directed her plea to the night sky.  "Why couldn't someone else be the Slayer?  Why did it have to be me?"  
            "Cause you look so damn good doing it, B." Faith joked lightly.  There was a lull in conversation as she found the words to voice her question.  "Are we good?  The whole Spike thing.  Me not telling anyone?  It's not like you told everyone when Angel got Fed Ex-ed back from Hell."

            "Don't remind me." Buffy groaned, a sorrowful smile on her face when she turned toward Faith, "We're good.  We're still in shock but we're good.  Not much of a choice with this year's fiendish and evil plot to kill us, is there?"

            "We'll get through it.  No way I'm putting up with all this pregnancy shit for nothing."

            "Giles is going to be researching for weeks.  One of theses days, he's going to fall into a library somewhere and we'll never see him again."  Hazel eyes strayed back to Cara briefly.  "Hopefully Wes can get some answers."

            Faith rubbed her hands to warm them.  "I need to get inside.  Check on Spike, change clothes."

            "Sorry." 

            "No worries, B."  She uncurled stiff legs and pushed herself up onto her feet slowly, joints cracking as her back twisted and unwound.  

            "He'll be alright, Faith."

            "I know." Faith smiled, grateful for the reassurance.  "I watched a metal rod go straight through his chest and he's still kicking."

            "That's our Spike."       

Faith wrapped her arms tightly around her chest but couldn't stop the shivering.  When Buffy held out her hand to help her up off of the step, she took it slowly.  Her body ached and howled with every step she took, perilously close to collapse as muscles clamored for sleep.  Vaguely aware of other voices, she let Buffy lead her into the house.  Promising herself that she was only going to close her eyes for a minute before finding Spike, she sunk into the couch and huddled against the cushions.  Just for a minute.

            The first thought that managed coherence was the realization that he was back in Buffy's basement and everything smelled of lavender.  A second after that, Spike felt the headache split into his skull with all the power he remembered from his days with a chip.  Teeth and bones ached with the slow burn that made every breath torturous.

            "Spike?" Dawn's voice was a familiar anchor in his seasick world.

            "Bit?" Throat constricting, he nearly gagged on the word and moaned.  "What the bloody hell happened?"

            "You collapsed." Cool hands pressed against his forehead and chest, staying a moment longer than necessary.  He could almost taste the anxiety radiating from her and tried to think of something to ease her worry.

            "Where's Faith?"  It struck him that he'd left her alone to explain his new lease on life.  Dawn pushed him back down when he tried to sit up.

            "Easy, easy.  She's asleep upstairs.  She'll have a pretty nice shiner tomorrow but she's alright."

            "Shiner?  What?  Who?" His eyes felt like sandpaper as he blinked into the dim light of the basement.

            "Big Slayer fight on the front lawn.  I didn't get to see it, of course.  I always hear about these things last." Warmth spread over his side as she sat down carefully.  "Guess you just can't stay away, huh?"

            "Guess not." Finally able to focus, he found her face in the darkness and tried to smile.  "Hey there.  Long time no see."

            "One of these days, you could try coming back without all the drama.  Or letting us know you're alive.  That would be a good place to start."

            "I'm sorry." He winced at the despondent tone of her voice.

            "I expect groveling for a good long time."

"Sorry." He repeated lamely.

            "Of course, I'd settle for an explanation.  Those are definitely of the good."

            "Sorry again, Little Bit."

            "It's Dawn now." 

            He almost called her on it but saw the way her eyes darted nervously across his face and merely nodded.  "Dawn.  I don't know how it happened.  Woke up one morning with a heartbeat.  I didn't even remember who I was until a few months ago."

            "Weird.  Like you just popped into existence?"

            "No." He slowly reached up to touch her hand lightly.  "I have memories of a human life.  School, friends.  Family."

            Dawn smiled knowingly.  "But they're not real.  I get that."

            "Figured you would."

"Are they happy memories?" She stared down at his hand for a moment before linking her fingers through his.

            "Mostly."

            "Mine too."  Fingertips brushed lightly over the back of his hand as she tested the surface of his skin.  "You're warm.  It's different."

He hadn't expected the overwhelming sensations that her touch created, the dance of her fingers across his hand.  Hadn't expected to feel something tighten in his chest, to realize that he had truly missed her.  No more invisible walls between them, no more hesitation because the nagging bloodlust would drive him insane if he got too close.  All that time believing that humans weren't connected to anything larger than themselves when it was right there in front of him.  He just hadn't felt it before.  They were connected to each other.

"Beats being dead." Trying for lighthearted, he could hardly believe how much she'd changed.  It was subtle.  There were faint streaks of blond in her hair while the proportions of her face had shifted, giving her an exotic type of beauty.  Definitely not the fourteen-year-old girl who had stared up at him with wide, fascinated eyes.  Her taste in clothing had changed.  More elegant than the flamboyant teenage outfits she'd worn.  More mature.

            "Are you human?  Like the rest of us."

            "Mostly."

            "So, like, what's different?"

            "Stronger, faster.  Like your sis." He frowned as the memory of his rather embarrassing entrance began to clear.  "There's something else too.  Something to do with Slayers.  I can feel them.  Thought it was just Faith at first but it's all three of them.  Felt like I was on fire."

            Dawn tipped her head to the side curiously, "Anything from me?  Cause I'm supposed to have Buffy blood in here somewhere."

            He tried to focus on their hands and finally shook his head, "Not the same.  Different than it was before but not the same.  Might be a human thing."

            "Well.  The big brains upstairs probably have a zillion theories by now." Her fingers tightened in a quick squeeze.  "And Dr. Dawn Summers says you'll make a full recovery."

            "Wouldn't want to disobey the doctor's orders, would I?"

            "Usually not a good idea."

            "Dawn?" Another hazy memory was beginning to focus and somehow he knew it was important.  That it was another piece of a puzzle.

            "Yeah?"

            "I remember a place." He fought to clear the fog from his mind.  "After I died.  I remember that it was peaceful there."

            "Like where Buffy was?"

            "Different." The headache pounded against his attempts to get a closer look.  "But I remember that you were there.  Or somewhere.  You were close.  I knew where you were."  He felt her hand tighten.  "Maybe you were with me.  Doesn't make a bloody ounce of sense, does it?"

            "It does sound a little crazy." 

            "Probably just the mind playing tricks on me again." 

            "But it's a good trick.  That maybe I was with you and that you weren't alone." She pulled her hand away slowly.  "I should check upstairs, see if they've found anything yet."

            "Thanks, Bi…Dawn."

            "I'll be back soon." 

            Grateful to close his eyes and sink back into the mind-numbing pain of his headache, he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes gently.  If he stayed motionless, he could feel the humming beneath his skin that he'd learned to associate with Faith.  Only it was about three times as powerful.  Damn.  Why couldn't Fate have given him a normal, boring life?  Maybe a caveman chasing after Mammoths and making fire.  It would be a relief to only worry about gathering berries and finding a good rock to crack nuts.  No world ending, no world saving, just endless days of finding food and shelter.  If only life could be that simple. 

            A faint creak alerted him to the presence of someone else and he bit back a groan.  "I hurt too much to give a damn who's there.  Unless it's Harris, of course.  In that case, sod off."

            "Spike." Quiet and almost unrecognizable, it took him a few seconds to realize who he was talking to.

            "Angel?  That you?"

            "Unfortunately."

            "What are you doing here?" Spike twisted onto his side, noting that he had been laid on a narrow mattress along the wall a few feet from the bottom of the stairs.  "There a SunnyHell reunion going on?"

            "Could ask you the same thing." Angel answered softly, still hidden in the shadows across the room.

            "Yeah, well, I asked first."

            An irritated sigh was punctuated by another creak, "Not in the mood to play grade school, Spike."

            "That's your problem.  All work and no play makes Angel a very dull demon.  You are still a vampire, right?"

            "Much as ever." There was a long pause.  "And you're not."

            "No." Spike squinted into the darkness.

            "Congratulations." Angel sounded tired and defeated.

            Pushing himself painfully up onto his elbows, Spike almost choked at the increase in the throbbing behind his eyes.  "Don't break out the champagne just yet.  Still don't know what the hell I am.  Could be something horrible, you know."

            "Are you trying to make me feel better?"

            "What?  Course not." Spike grimaced.  "Just saying."

            "What else do you want?  You had Buffy, you have Faith, you have a heartbeat.  Dawn worships you.  I'd say you're looking pretty good."

            "Don't know what you're talking about."

            "Nothing.  Just…had a bad day." 

            Spike hesitated for a second before deciding to change the subject.  "How long have you been here?"

            "Since noon or somewhere around there.  Came in with Cara."

            "She's the crazy one, right?"

            "You could say that."

            "You'd know.  Being an expert on helping people with that pesky sanity problem." Spike stretched hesitantly, pivoting around to press his back against the cool cement of the wall.  

            "She's not like Dru." Angel answered with some difficulty.  "At least Dru was predictable most of the time.  As long as she had her dolls and her stars, she was happy."

            "You fucking bastard." Spike ground out painfully.  "You did that to her.  You.  And you have the fucking gall to joke about it now."

            "I wasn't trying to be funny."

            "S'pose you'll be happy to know she's dead.  Finally free of the hell you damned her to." There was nothing but silence for several minutes as Spike seethed, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress tightly.

            "How?"

            Spike was startled by the gentleness in Angel's question.  "I killed her.  She turned to dust in my arms."

            "I'm sorry."

            He winced as he ran one hand through his hair.  God, even his hair fucking hurt.  "Why don't we just stop talking?  Bloody headache is bad enough without having to put up with your bullshit."

            "Spike."

            "Just shut up, Angel."

            "How's Faith?"

            "My favorite color's black.  I told you, I don't want to talk." Spike's head was still aching from the rapid subject change.

            "Don't much like your company either but there's nothing else to do at the moment."

            "She's fine." He tried to push away the lingering resentment over Dru and the general frustration of being once more stuck in the Summers basement with little more to do than try not to hurt.  

            "You're treating her well?"

            "What kind of an idiot do you think I am?"

            "You don't really want me to answer that question, do you?"

            "One more word out of your mouth."

            "Relax, Spike.  I remember you having a sense of humor."

            Spike bristled for a moment before forcing himself to take a deep breath and calm down.  At the very least, he could get another dig in by reminding Angel which one of them had working lungs.  

            "Is she happy?"

            "What is it with you?  Did you wake up this morning and decide to piss me off?  Yes, she's happy.  She's fine."  He held up his left hand and tipped his head toward the ring on his finger knowing that the vampire would be able to see it in the faint light.  "Made an honest woman out of her and everything.  Satisfied?"

            "You're married?" Angel asked incredulously.  "Didn't think she was the marrying type."

            "I asked and she said yes.  End of subject.  Nothing left to talk about."

            "Congratulations."

            "Like you fucking care." Unable to keep his calm, Spike climbed to his feet and fumbled for the light switch near the bottom of the stairs.  If he was going to have to listen to the self-righteous bastard then he was damn well going to look him in the face while he was doing it.  

            "Don't!" Angel's hoarse shout was nearly drowned out by the thundering in Spike's skull as the light hit his eyes.

            Blinking and covering his eyes as they adjusted to the change, Spike grabbed onto the railing for support until the raging pain subsided and he could stand without swaying dangerously.  Assured that he wouldn't trip and make a fool of himself, he turned in the direction of Angel's voice and prepared to vent both his pain and frustration on the vampire.  What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks, mouth open and nothing to say.  Angel was sitting carefully on the familiar cot, a sheet wrapped loosely around his waist and legs.  Chest and arms were covered with raw and weeping burns.  Almost unrecognizable, there was a hint of a smile as he met Spike's gaze steadily. 

            "Should have seen me earlier.  Much better now." Angel said quietly.

            "Bloody hell." Spike slid down onto the bottom step, still trying to comprehend the sight in front of him.  "Decided to take an afternoon stroll?"

            "Sort of." His disfigured features twisted in pain as he shifted carefully.  "I'll be up and about in no time.  Don't worry about me."

            "Like I would." Even to Spike, it sounded hollow.  "Don't suppose you had a good reason for the grand gesture of stupidity?"

            "Needed to get to Sunnydale and warn the gang."

            "About?"

            "You don't know?"

            "Know what?" Spike tensed, hating the fact that Angel knew something he didn't and hating the idea of imminent danger even more.

            "Three Slayers left.  Once they're gone, no more are called."

            "Yeah.  Figured that out for myself."

            "Now everyone knows.  Every vampire, every demon." Angel stared down at his hand absently, watching bits of skin flake drift down to the sheet over his legs.

            Spike was frozen.  Terrified.  Unable to do anything but watch the world fall out from under his feet, leaving him hanging.  He'd known something had happened, had felt the nagging doubts as they continually grew in the back of his mind.  How many would come?  Could they even begin to fight an entire Earth of demons and monsters?  His earlier fears were magnified a hundred fold, rearing back to mock and howl at his meager hopes.  Trapped in the onslaught of worst-case scenarios, he barely understood the movement as Angel reached slowly down to the side of the cot for a jar of blood sitting on the floor.

            Head swimming violently, he pulled himself to his feet and started across the room in a daze.  Detached and reeling, he watched his own hand reach down and pick up the jar of blood, handing it gently to the injured vampire.  With feet and legs that felt leaden, impossibly heavy to move, he waited for Angel to finish before returning the empty jar to the floor.  

            "Thank you." Angel whispered.

            "Figure we'll need the muscle." Spike tried to force the edge back into his voice but it came out dull and flat.

            "Go." Angel nodded toward the stairs.  "Take care of Faith."

            Spike nodded, unable to do anything other than force his feet to move toward the steps and nothing but the thought of Faith to keep him going.  One step felt like scaling a mountain, each moment adding more to the pile of fear threatening to overwhelm him.

            "Spike?"

            "Yeah?" He couldn't turn around, reaching out blindly to leave the basement in darkness once again.

            "She's pregnant.  Isn't she?" 

            "How?" His voice broke as he looked back over his shoulder into the shadows.

            "The look on your face." Angel explained softly.  "I know how it feels.  That kind of fear.  It's the most amazing feeling in the world, being a father.  And the most terrifying."

            Spike tried taking deep breaths and focusing on the stairs.  Only silence followed him as he continued the trek one step at a time, closing the door behind him.  There were voices coming from the living room and lights burning into a much more frightening night.  He couldn't lose her.  Couldn't, wouldn't.  Fists clenched until pain stabbed up his arm, he kept placing one foot after another.  Deep breaths.  He could feel the familiar warmth of Faith and the steady power of Buffy.  The barely restrained fury of the third Slayer was absent and he breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that he would only have to deal with the sensory overload of two Slayers.  Head still pounding, he rounded the corner and squinted against the light of the living room.  Conversation halted as the remaining occupants watched him enter the room.

            His eyes fell to Faith immediately, trying to memorize the image of her curled up on the couch in peaceful sleep.  Stiff and aching, he moved a stack of books aside to sit next to her and pull her tenderly into his arms.  She nestled against him out of habit, silken hair caressing his neck lightly.  Convinced that she was still sleeping soundly, he met the curiosity of the people around him bluntly.

            "So what's the plan?"

            Wesley turned the volume of the television down when he saw her stir.  Pale light had just begun to creep around the edges of the worn and dirty fabric covering the small window.  His eyes were dry from lack of sleep and his head ached.  Most of the night had been spent searching for a way to get around the mental barriers Cara had built.  Through the silence and distance to the Slayer inside.  He knew there had to be a way, knew that if he pushed the right buttons he would be able to navigate the maze inside her head.  But what buttons to push?  Would he do even more damage?  Just before dawn, he'd come across a different set of possibilities that might work.  If he dared try that route.  With time possibly running out before all out war was declared against the Slayers, he wasn't sure he had the luxury of not trying.

Muscles coiled beneath her skin as she tested the straps that bound her tightly to the chair.  He hated it but he was more afraid of what he would see in her eyes when she finally looked up.  An endless string of imagined possibilities had paraded through his mind since she had left Sunnydale months before.  Would he see Cara or Lilah?  Her head lifted slowly, blinking as she fought off the drug and cautiously took in the bare surroundings of the dreary motel room.   

            "How do you feel?" He asked softly.  The corner of her lips lifted into a sardonic smile and he knew.

            "I've been better." Even her basic speech patterns had changed.  No longer clipped and precise, he could hear the seductive nuances of Lilah's voice in the way she formed each syllable.

            "Do you remember who I am?"

            She laughed, quick and biting.  "Like I'd forget."

            "Cara."

            "Come on, Wes." She glanced down at the straps crisscrossing her chest and stomach.  "Your tastes have changed.  Used to be glasses and school girls."

            "You're not Lilah."

            "Right.  Lilah's gone.  How lucky for me."

            "You can fight this, Cara.  I've seen you.  I know you." Warily, he pulled another chair over to sit directly in front of her.  Mentally, he tried to project the next move.  A psychological chess game played against a fractured but devious opponent.  Just Cara, he could handle.  Just Lilah, he understood.  It was the evolving combination of the two personalities that was uncharted territory.  Wolfram and Hart had made the same mistake in expecting either one or the other.  A lone Slayer to charging in or Lilah's subtle but equally anticipated method of attack.  Instead, Cara had done the something the Senior Partners hadn't planned for.  Contacting Knox, enlisting the Riley and the Army, and the complete obliteration of the Los Angeles office.  None of it fit either profile and left Wesley wondering exactly how he was supposed to find his way in.

            "I know what you want." She fidgeted against the bindings, never quite meeting his eyes.

            "I'm just here to talk and to listen."

            "Go to hell."

            "Cara."

            "Stop calling me that." Her voice echoed harshly in the small room.  "You don't fucking know me.  You never knew me."

            "Listen to me."

            "No.  You listen to me." Her cheeks flushed, the burns on the side of her face darkening with the rush of blood.  "How do you sleep at night?  How can you sit there and judge me?  I can see it in your eyes.  The pity.  You think it was your fault and you know what?  You're right.  This whole fucking mess is your fault."

            "Just calm down."  The hostility in her voice stung and her anger pricked at the heavy guilt over what had happened.

            "Why?  So you can lecture me?  Why don't you explain it to me, Wes?  Tell me how everything I've done is all right because I'm crazy.  Because I got a fucking memory makeover from your psychotic ex-girlfriend.  Explain it to me." Her words ended in a bitter snarl and she continued to fight against the restraints.

            Wesley took a deep breath, keeping his hands open against his knees.  "I know it's hard to see us.  To deal with those memories.  What we've done and what Lilah has done.  I know it's difficult."

            "What you've done?" Full lips curled into a sneer that was all Lilah.  "Big bad Wesley.  Kept a girl locked in a closet.  What else did you do that was so dark?  So bad.  Oh yeah.  You slept with the enemy.  Makes you a real bad guy, all that rough and tumble sex.  You like to pretend you've changed but you're still the pathetic, useless failure you always were.  A disgrace to your family, to the Council.  Every Slayer you touch turns evil.  How does that feel?"

            "You're not evil."  

            "Prove it." She challenged fiercely.  "Prove that you don't think I'm evil.  Untie me."

            He didn't move.  Hands flat on his thighs and his face carefully blank.  "Where do you think all this rage comes from, Cara?"

            "Let me think," Her head tipped to the side for a moment.  "Oh yeah.  You stuck me with a fucking needle and tied to me a chair.  How about that for starters?"

            "You attacked Cordelia."

            "And your point?  You hate that two-faced bitch as much as I do, you're just better at hiding it." 

            "That's not true."

            "Isn't it?  Out of all of them, Cordelia should have taken your side when you took Connor.  She was your friend and she did nothing.  Just stood back and let them treat you like shit.  If anyone should have had the decency to hear you out, it was her."

            "That wasn't her fault."

            "No?  And Miss Perfect Chase has never done anything wrong, of course.  She's a goddamn saint.  Except for that one time when she shacked up with Angel's son.  Don't forget that."

            Wesley smiled tightly, "You didn't curse nearly this much before."

            "Spend a few months with the Marines and we'll see how good your English is." Cara stopped struggling for a minute, sweat dampening the hair along her forehead.  

            "It has to be painful." He motioned to the places where the straps rubbed against the bandages.

            "Pain, pleasure.  It's all the same line."

            "A line that you haven't even begun to understand."

            "And I should bow to your wisdom?  I'd rather slit my wrists."

            "When the First Slayer was called, do you think there was a first Watcher?"

            "God forbid there should be a Slayer without her Watcher." She spat bitterly.

            "Why does a Slayer even need a Watcher?"  He kept his voice soft.  Every word needed to be carefully laid and her answer predicted.  Facing him seemed to bring Lilah's personality to the front, making it both easier and more difficult to maneuver.  The trick was getting her to answer his questions without triggering the stonewall silence or violent rage of Cara.

            "I don't know.  Who else would bore her to death?"    

            "They didn't have Watchers, not in the beginning.  Not until they realized what they'd done to her, the first Slayer.  We weren't intended to guide or to train them.  We were meant to stop them if they lost sight of the mission." Slowly, he slipped a narrow blade from the side pocket of his cargo pants.  It caught against one of the straps, fraying and slicing slowly through the tightly wound fabric.  "Family.  Friends.  And the occasional rogue.  Just meant to watch them."  Another strap fluttered to the floor.  "And when or if they cross that line."  He eased the knife under another strap, slicing through it and the dark fatigues she was wearing, exposing the bandages beneath.  "We were meant to take care of it."

            "Figures." Cara answered guardedly, dark eyes fixed on the knife in his hand.

            "Do you know why?"

            "You're probably going to tell me whether I want to know or not."

            "Because everything has a price."  He finished the straps around her legs and began to methodically cut away the bindings over her chest and arms.  "And the price of a Slayer, the price of the world, is that you're dark.  Impure.  Tainted."  

            "I'm assuming you have a point to all this bullshit."

            "The Cruciamentum, as it turns out, was created in an attempt to force the Slayer into gaining mastery of the darkness inside her." He pulled his chair closer until her knees bumped against the wood, one leg on either side of hers and trapping her ankles against the legs of the chair.  "I started looking after you left for South America.  After I started thinking.  Faith, you, even Buffy has had her share of darkness.  I went through as many of the Watcher's Journals as I could find, searching for a reason why Slayers fall."

            "Poor baby.  Grasping at straws.  You couldn't face the fact that you're just doomed to have evil Slayers.  Let me say that again.  Evil.  Kills people.  You're the big brain, do the math."

            "I know you're not evil, Cara." The last strap fell away, he watched as she flexed her hands repeatedly to stimulate the circulation and adjusted the bandages wrapped around her right arm.

            "And how's that?"

            "You could have killed me and you didn't." Very gently, he leaned forward enough to press the blade of the knife against her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath her skin.

            "What are you talking about?"

            "That day on the base here in Sunnydale.  You knew what was in that syringe and you knew a full dose would kill me."

            "So I didn't want to kill you.  So what?"

            "Cara." Slowly, he eased his left hand over her shoulder and tangled his fingers into the cool heart of her braid.  "You need to make a choice."

            "A little late for that, don't you think?"

            He knew it wasn't fast in Slayer terms but he was on his feet quickly enough to catch her off guard, yanking her head back sharply and digging the blade deeper into her skin.  "You can be Cara or you can be Lilah but you can't be both.  Choose."

            "Let go of me." She hissed threateningly.

            "I am your Watcher, Cara.  If I can't trust you to be the Slayer then you leave me no choice." Counting on both Lilah's obstinacy and Cara's formidable determination, he continued to test the water, waiting to see just how far she would let him push.  

            "Fuck you." Cara glared up at him.  "Go ahead.  Do it.  You can go back to Angel like the good little dog you are and tell him that you've fixed everything.  Killing is always the answer with you and your pathetic friends.  It's evil, kill it.  That's all you know."

            "Are you going to be a Slayer or not?"

            "You have no idea what it means to be a Slayer.  You're just the sidekick, Wesley.  You're nothing.  It's been all about Angel since you came to Los Angeles and you can't stand the thought that you've all been wrong."

            "Give me a reason to trust you." Blood oozed out of a thin slice in her skin, dripping down the blade and staining his fingers.

            "Angel's just convenient.  The Powers needed a Go To boy and he jumped when they said jump.  Do you really think they had any intention of giving him a reward?  They gave your precious Cordelia to Jasmine and they let her pull Connor's strings the whole time.  The Beast, blocking out the sun.  All with their blessing."

            "It's not true." He tightened his grip on her hair, leaning close enough to feel her breath against his skin and forcing himself to maintain eye contact.

            "But you can't prove it.  You can't prove that I'm lying, can you?"  

            He saw the blur of movement in his peripheral vision a second before her hand closed down on his forearm like a vise, twisting his hand away from her neck and wrenching his wrist hard enough to force his fingers open.  The knife had barely touched the carpet before she attacked, knocking him back and to the side.  Wood splintered and exploded as she kicked his chair into the wall.  She grabbed onto his shoulders as he tried to twist away from her, forcing him down against the bed with a cruel smile on her face.  Strong legs trapped him firmly, straddling and keeping him completely in her control

            "You're still a servant, Wesley, only this time you're panting after a vampire.  How pathetic is that?" Her eyes glinted triumphantly as she caught his wrists painfully and pinned them above his head with one hand.  

            "If helping Angel makes me pathetic then I'm proud of it."  It was time to switch tactics, he kept his voice soft and made no attempt to fight her.    

            "How noble of you.  Wasting your life so that a demon can be redeemed.  Newsflash, lover, there is no such thing as redemption."

            Wesley stilled completely as he watched her.  It was eerie.  The blurred line between violence and raw sexuality.  Uncanny in the way she spoke almost with Lilah's voice, every inflection and pause so achingly familiar. "Why didn't you tell me?"

            "Tell you what?"

            "That you were so unhappy." Slowly twisting his right hand, he held his breath to see her reaction, a little surprised when she allowed him to slip away from her grip.  He reached up slowly to cup the unburned side of her face in his palm.  "All those years and you never said a word.  Not one.  Why?"

            "What are you talking about?"

            "Lilah."  

            She blinked rapidly and tried to pull away from him, releasing his left wrist quickly.  "What are you doing?"

            "Lilah."  Taking advantage of her hesitation, he gripped her arms tightly, twisting to the right and rolling her onto her back.  "I just want to help you."

            "I don't believe you." It was barely a whisper and he could see the confusion in her eyes.  

            "There's a dollar bill in my wallet if you want proof."  He waited for it to sink in, caressing her shoulders lightly and leaning down to kiss the line of her jaw softly.  There was no protest or attempt to stop him.  He could feel her heart pounding in her chest, fists clenched tightly at her sides.  "All those secrets you've been keeping.  You could have told me."

            "What secrets?"

            "About Angel and Connor.  About Jasmine." Careful not to put too much pressure on her burns, he eased his weight onto the left side of her body and continued to trace a path down her neck.  Nipping teasingly at her collarbone and the base of her throat, he caught a drop of her blood on his thumb and brushed it against her bottom lip.  "You like it rough.  I remember."

            "Wesley." Her breath was coming in ragged pulses, hot against his skin.

            "Tell me about Connor, Lilah.  Tell me why you killed him."

            "He, they, they couldn't.  Let him live."  He watched as her eyelashes fluttered, the flush of her cheeks darkening.  "Jasmine was sent to keep him safe.  Protected.  Until he was old enough."

            "I thought Jasmine needed Connor to be born." Turning her head to the side, he bit down hard enough to leave marks on her neck, roughly scraping his tongue against the cut.  The taste of her blood nearly choked him.  

            "She did.  She didn't know." 

            "I don't understand.  Explain it to me." He let his hand leisurely slide down her neck, tugging against the collar of her t-shirt and feeling her trembling beneath him.

            "They needed something different.  A new way."

            "A new way to what?" He could feel her nipple harden through the lightweight cotton, her back arching as he curved his hand over her breast.

            "They want a Slayer." Her words melted into a soft moan.  "Without the price."

            Wesley closed his eyes, forcing himself to breath deeply.  "And Angel is their way?"

            "Yes."

            "And Spike?  Do you know what he is?"

            "He's, he's like Connor." The words caught in her throat as she shifted, hands sliding up his chest to lift his head.  He was unprepared for the familiarity.  There was blood on her lips, washing away as she kissed him hungrily.  A tremor shot through him as the tip of her tongue danced along his and she sucked his lower lip between her teeth, biting down not quite hard enough to be painful.  Just like Lilah.  

            Unnerved by the contact, he pulled away and returned his focus to her neck, "How?" 

            "There's more than one way to skin a cat." Her hands were hot against his skin as they slipped beneath his shirt, trailing lightly over his lower back and hips.  

            In a single terrifying moment, it finally registered that he already knew how she would respond to his touch.  She would not stop him, would not say no.  Lilah would not say no.  For a moment he weakened, holding onto her tightly, eyes closed and desperately pretending that it was Lilah.  That he could pull away at any moment and see Lilah's face instead of Cara's.  Hating that he still wanted it to be her.  Hating himself for what he was doing.  Finally, he slipped one hand under the pillow above them.  Fingers closed around the cold plastic of a syringe.  Slowly, he pushed away from her, meeting her eyes for what could be the last time he would ever see anything but fury.

            "What's wrong, lover?" Her voice had the same husky quality that drove him crazy.

            "I'm sorry, Cara."  

He watched her eyes widen with understanding as he pushed the needle into her neck, pumping the drug into her blood.  The look of betrayal felt like the lash of a whip.  Not because he'd betrayed Lilah.  There was no Lilah, not anymore, and betrayal had been the status quo in their twisted relationship.  He waited until her breathing was solid and even, eyes closed and blissfully unaware of the world around her before rolling away and reaching for the cell phone beside the bed.  The plastic felt like ice burning into his hand as he dialed clumsily.

            "Wes?" Fred's voice was tired.

            "I have more information."  

            "How did it go?"

            "Fine." He turned away from Cara's sleeping form.  "When are we meeting?"

            "We're supposed to be at the base this afternoon.  Riley's still trying to work something out to keep the commandos from freaking out over Cara being there.  How is she?"

            "Fine." He repeated numbly.

            "Guess we'll see you there."

            "This afternoon." 

The phone beeped as he shut it off.  For what felt like forever, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at the phone.  Unable to move and unable to take more than shallow, labored breaths.  His hands burned, his skin burned.  Lungs ached as his throat constricted, cutting off air.  The phone slipped from his hand unnoticed as he stumbled unevenly into the small bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before his stomach rebelled violently to the bitter taste of her blood in his mouth, burning it away with acid.  He was shaking as he stood up and rinsed his mouth with cold water.  Haunted blue eyes stared back from the warped surface of the mirror.  He could see the room behind him, see Cara lying peacefully on the bed.  His Slayer.  

She had trusted him.  


	45. A Thousand Words

Note:  Trust me.  A Thousand Words – 

            ****

Restlessness drove Spike out of the cozy nest of blankets and pillows in the living room, trying not to wake Faith as he slipped back into his clothes and shoes.  Birds had been chirping outside the window, effectively keeping him awake more than the brightening rays of morning.  Not that he hadn't tried.  It had been all too easy to close his eyes and wish he was back in the Boston apartment with nothing to worry about except the daily grind and what Faith wanted for breakfast.  He wondered if the tension would ever leave his muscles or if his blood pressure would ever lower to a normal level again.  There was some consolation in the fact that he'd nearly grown accustomed to the tangible hum of being near two Slayers.  It wasn't exactly comfortable.  Somewhere between constant needle pricks and being doused in boiling oil.  

            Keeping his footsteps barely audible, he crept through the silent house to the kitchen for a glass of water.  The coffeemaker was cheerfully advertising fresh caffeine and the clock informed him that the weary occupants had slept well past their midmorning deadline and into the afternoon.  Bones and muscles aching, he reluctantly decided against plain water and poured a cup of coffee.  For a quiet moment, he watched as the sunlight danced enticingly through the window of the kitchen door.  Caving to the temptation, he took the steaming mug and let himself quietly out of the house to enjoy the sunrise.

            "Hey." Buffy smiled up at him from the porch steps.

            Spike froze for a moment before reminding himself that he was going to have this conversation at some point whether he wanted to or not.  Managing a smile that wasn't too strained, he settled down on the top step and tried to think of something to say.  "You're up early."

            "Couldn't sleep."

            "Oh." They sat in silence for several minutes.  Coffee swirled and birds sang as the sun heaved itself up through the sky in its endless routine.

            "How's life?" Buffy asked softly, eyes on the mug in her hands.

            "The usual.  Work, sleep, kill a few nasties here and there."

            "Dawn says you have memories.  Like hers."

            "Yeah." Spike shifted, patting the back pocket of his jeans as he checked for his wallet.  He set it down on the wood between them rather than handing it to her, still wondering how he was supposed to feel and behave.

            She flipped through the wallet without comment, pausing briefly over his driver's license and police ID before placing it neatly back on the step.  "You're a cop?"

            "Ironic, isn't it?" He grinned as he sipped his coffee.  

            "There are no words for the irony that is you being a cop." 

            "Wasn't sure if I wanted to keep on being one after…after I remembered who I was." 

            "So you don't know why you're here?"

            "Does anyone?" He raised an eyebrow questioningly.  "Ever find out why Angel's back?  Or why you're here again."

            "A lot of unanswerable questions in Sunnydale.  You get used to it." She answered breezily.

            He caught the flash of recognition in her eyes as they flicked to his wedding band.  "Yeah.  Knew I'd have to come back someday.  Just hoping it wouldn't be when every other critter on the planet was due to arrive."

            "You always did have lousy timing." One corner of her mouth turned up in a quirky smile.

            "Not going to argue that one." 

Words drifted into the distant sound of traffic and Sunnydale as the city shrugged off sleep, resuming the hustle and bustle of everyday life.  Spike noticed a few new flowerbeds.  The house and back fence had been repainted recently and there was a bird feeder hanging above the porch.  For the first time since Joyce's death, it looked like a place where people lived and loved.  Like a home.

"It's like a Boyfriend Reunion.  You, Angel, Riley.  As long as you don't kill each other, I'll consider it a success." There was light-hearted humor in her voice.  

"Guess I'm not the only one with bad timing." 

"It's a conspiracy.  A plot.  I'm sure of it." She finished off her mug and set it aside gently.  "Nothing ever goes wrong in nicely spaced intervals.  Just falls apart in one big whoosh like one of those displays at the grocery store.  Pick out a completely innocent can of Diet Coke and then..."  She trailed off, her cheeks getting a little rosier.

"Whole thing comes tumbling down?  Feels like that sometimes." Spike smiled tentatively.

"Crazy Slayer, pregnant Slayer, lots of demons wanting an All You Can Eat Slayer Buffet.  And none of them have the decency to RSVP."

"Didn't exactly plan on that happening." He stared down into his coffee a bit sheepishly.

"The Faith being pregnant part?"  Buffy frowned disapprovingly but there was a teasing sparkle in her eyes.  "You're how old and you haven't managed to figure out birth control?"

"Hey." Spike protested.  "Didn't have to care for most of the last hundred and some odd years.  Just didn't think about it."

"Like every other male on Earth." She snorted and rolled her eyes.  

"Not too inclined to defend my gender at the moment, all things considered.  Maybe you should consider switching teams."

Her ponytail bounced as she shook her head.  "No thanks.  Women are twice as confusing.  I spend more time listening to Willow than Xander.  Not that I'm actually any help.  More like anti-help.  But I do think that I motivate them to keep trying."

"So they don't end up like you?"

"Why does it sound so much worse when you say it?"

"You'll find someone, Buffy." He sipped his coffee carefully, grateful for the warmth against his hands.  "It takes time."

"Maybe.  This is Sunnydale.  What are the odds of actually finding a normal, human, Buffy boyfriend?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

"I'm not.  I mean, not really.  Just given up on the whole soul mate, true love forever, and pitter-patter of little feet."

"Give it a chance." 

"You mean, if we survive?" She sighed wearily.  "I keep thinking this is the calm before the storm.  That I'm going to look out the front door and see a mob of demons with torches and pitchforks."

"Could be." He admitted, not knowing what to expect from his own future.  The bright sun and cloudless blue sky was deceptively peaceful and calm.  Only the chill in the air and Buffy's fuzzy sweater carried any reminder that it was winter in California.  There was no hint of the ominous threat looming on the horizon.

            "Never a dull moment in Sunnydale."  There was another awkward silence as they both stared intently at the non-happenings in the backyard and tried to figure out what they were supposed to be talking about.

            "Guess that's it for the small talk."  Spike took a deep, calming breath.

            "Yeah.  Now what?"

            "Not a clue.  You?" 

            "Well." Buffy frowned thoughtfully before opening and closing her mouth several times.  "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

            "Four years plus a little bit.  Be five in May."

            "May?  Where are you counting from?"

            "Bathroom." He stared down at the wood between his boots.  Wishing he could feel more that just vague sadness for what he'd done.  She deserved more than casual regret but the burning guilt had been worn down by the years between.  He almost laughed.  Feeling guilty for not feeling guilty enough.  

            "Oh."

            "About that."  

            "That being you trying to rape me?" Surprisingly, there was no anger or hostility in her voice.

            "Could you not say that…word.  I know what I did.  Saw it every time I closed my eyes for months, years even.  Heard your voice in my head until I thought I'd gone mad." Spike rubbed at the tension building in his neck and shoulders, feeling as though all the heavens were staring down at the spot between his shoulder blades.

            "And you got your soul back." 

            "Wanted to give you want you deserved.  What I thought you deserved anyway." He shrugged, unable to meet her eyes.  "Looking back, I didn't have a bloody clue what you needed.  'Cept my being gone.  That seems to have helped."

            "I missed you." Buffy folded her arms loosely, picking at the sleeves of her sweater.  "And Dawn missed you."

            "Clem told me that Tara and Anya died.  Sorry I wasn't here to help."

            "We lived through it.  We always do."  There was a beat.  "Well, most of us.  We lost a lot of the girls.  Cara was one of the ones who slipped through the cracks and wasn't found until after.  Probably would have been better if they'd never found her at all or if…" The words faded away.

            "If what?"  He watched her curiously.

            "Nothing." Shaking her head, she quickly changed the subject.  "You told me, after you found out you could hurt me without the chip firing.  You said I was dark, that I belonged in the darkness."

            "Buffy, don't.  That wasn't true."

            "No.  You were right." She waved away his protests.  "You weren't right the way you thought you were right but you were still right even though you were wrong.  Did that make any sense?"

            "Sort of.  No.  Not at all."

            "I was dark." She finally turned to meet his eyes full on.  "When Willow brought me back, I let the darkness in.  It was like I couldn't stop myself.  I let it seep in and fill me up until it drowned all the light.  This world, this job, being the Slayer.  There's so much darkness and I see it every day.  I let it take me over."

            Spike hesitated, running one hand through his hair as if the very action would help sort through his thoughts.  "I think I understand.  Being a cop, you see the asshole end of human nature every day, especially in homicide.  Some of them can't take it.  Alcoholism, divorce, maybe they're all symptoms of the darkness creeping in."     

            "When I was with you, it was easier to not see the darkness.  Treading the gray waters.  Never quite drowning and never quite swimming."

            "It's complicated." He added softly.

            "Way complicated.  I had all this hate and rage and self-loathing that wasn't me.  I still don't know where it all came from and why.  Everything I touched felt like broken glass.  Even when it started getting better, when there were days that I could hold on to the light, I still came to you.  You were my drug of choice."

            "Because I loved you?"

            "That was part of it.  I think." She looked away uncomfortably.  "A team of psychiatrists would probably have a field day with my brain.  Definite thesis material."

            "You've been through a lot."

            "I'm sorry.  For hurting you."

            "I'm sorry too.  For what it's worth."  He resisted the urge to reach out and comfort her the way he had longed to do for so long.

            "It's worth a lot."  

            "I should have come back sooner." Spike leaned back on the heels of his palms.  "Can't seem to get away from this place anyway.  Might as well put down some roots and stay for good."

            "The last few years have been pretty boring.  Nothing even close to a real challenge."

            "Until now."

            "If the legions of the undead actually decide to show." A strand of hair danced as she blew it away from her eyes, resting her chin on one hand tiredly.  "I never got to tell you that I fell in love with you.  Sometime after and between and before.  Or while you were gone.  I'm not sure."

            "You fell in love with something.  Wasn't me." Spike disagreed sympathetically.  "The idea, maybe."

            "I know you don't believe me.  Why would you after I kicked it in your face so many times that I couldn't ever love you?"

            "It doesn't matter now, does it?" He tried to shift the conversation gently; uncomfortable with her honesty and half-convinced she would regret her words later.  "Life moved on and we moved with it."

            "You saved me." Buffy looked down at her hands, brushing her knuckles lightly.  "Kept me here and alive when I didn't want to be.  Whatever else happened or happens between us, I want you to know that.  Every night you saved me."

            Spike smiled at the echo of the past and his own musings.  That he would never have fought for his soul, never found his way to New Orleans and to Faith if none of Sunnydale had happened.  The silence wasn't as awkward this time.  He could hear the sounds of people moving in the kitchen behind them.  Spoons clinking against cereal bowls and the pop of the toaster spitting out bread.  A few more minutes and they would have to rejoin the gang, come back to the real world and begin the preparations to keep the Slayers alive.  Just a few more minutes, just a couple more things he needed to say.

            "She cares what you think.  Faith." He continued softly.  "Won't ever say it but you mean a lot to her."

            "I know.  A few bumps and a couple fist fights but we found our way somehow."

            "If it comes down to it." He had to clear his throat before he could continue.  "If you have to make a choice between me and Faith.  Promise me you'll choose her."

            "Spike."

            "Promise me.  I can't do this, stay here and be part of this, without knowing that you'll protect her first."

            "Please don't ask me to do this." 

            "I need this.  Buffy, please." The struggle was written plainly in her wide eyes.  He saw the moment she crumpled, looking away from him and nodding faintly.  Prepared for the familiar surge of electricity, he laid one hand gently over the closed fists in her lap.  "Thank you."

            There was no denying the temptation to peek through the kitchen window at the back porch.  Do more than just listen to the soft murmur of voices as Spike and Buffy started on the mammoth task of catching up.  In fact, if it hadn't been for the unmistakable warning in the soft headshake Willow had given her, Dawn would have barreled out the door and invited herself to the party.  

"I just wanted to see if they were both alive out there.  They used to beat each other up all the time, remember?" With exaggerated annoyance, she took a seat at the island and pretended to pout.  

            "No one's going to beat anyone.  Except you if Buffy finds out you're spying on them." Willow shook her spoon threatening.  "We were supposed to be up and research bound hours ago.  So eat your yummy and nutritious breakfast and then it's book duty for you, young lady."

            "Yeah, yeah, yeah." Dawn poured a bowl of cereal and dug in without enthusiasm.  "When's Riley supposed to be here?"

            "Wes was going to have one chemically gift-wrapped Slayer delivered at noon and Riley said he'd be here after they got her secured.  So, any minute now."

            "Do you think they'll put a mask on her?  Like Silence of the Lambs?"

            "Dawn."

            "What?" Dawn batted her eyes innocently.

            "Buffy wants us to be patient with Cara.  We're going to try to help her."

            "Right.  Can I stop being patient when she starts killing people?"   

            Willow sighed tiredly and pushed a mug of coffee down in front of Dawn, "If I give you coffee, will you be a little more positive about this whole Cara thing?  Buffy doesn't need any more people telling her that Cara's dangerous."

            "I guess.  For coffee." Smiling wryly, Dawn accepted the peace offering.  "Cordy probably would have won anyway.  She Who Glows Like a Christmas Tree also kicks some serious ass.  Do you think Cara would have burned up like a vamp?"

            "Who knows?" Willow admitted, taking a seat beside Dawn and sipping her own cup of coffee.  "But the whole game plan is keeping the Slayers alive and that means all three of them.  Not just one or two, all three."

            "I know." 

They lapsed into the silence of coffee and waiting for the back door to open, the signal that playtime was officially over, the real world was live, in color, and waiting to kill them all.  Dawn swirled her spoon lazily in the leftover milk, watching the waves and patterns left behind by the stainless steel.  Another day of reading books and carving stakes.  Another day of being useless.  She knew that Buffy would disagree and give her another pep talk about how important it was for the Slayer to have friends and family behind her.  How important Dawn was to keep Buffy holding on and giving her a reason to keep fighting night after night.  She just wanted to do more.  Be more than Stake Sharpener Number Four.

"Willow?  Remember when demon guy sent me away in New Orleans?" She picked at one of the scorch marks on the counter top.

"We were scared to death you wouldn't come back." Willow shuddered a little at the memory.  

"Do you think that I know where I was?  Somewhere in my brain, even though I don't remember.  Could the memories just be hidden or forgotten?"

"It's possible." The redhead frowned thoughtfully.  "Why?"

"Spike said that after he died, he went to somewhere peaceful.  And that he knew where I was or that I was with him."  Dawn hesitated briefly as the idea that had been shape shifting through her mind finally began to solidify.  "It's possible that I just can't remember."

"What are you thinking?" Willow asked warily.

"You got into Buffy's head, sorta, after Glory took me.  Is there some way you could do the same thing?  Maybe take a look in my brain and see where I was."  She left it at that.  Simple and straightforward.  No use babbling about wanting to know what she was, if she was actually human, and the nagging feeling that all her questions had finally been answered if she could just remember.  

"Could tell us what Spike is."  Willow's eyes lit up as she considered the idea.  "Which would be one question down and only a few million to go."

"It's a start."

"It's a good idea, Dawnie.  And I think I know just what we need."

"Really?  Like a spell?" Dawn perked up a little, hopeful that she might be able to contribute something other than another demon stat sheet for the commandos to file away.  

"Something shiny." 

"Huh?" Puzzled, she watched Willow hunt through the kitchen drawers.

"This'll do." With a satisfied nod, Willow fished out a tea strainer and swung it back and forth experimentally.  "We should probably do this in the living room.  More comfortable.  We'll have to be quiet though, Faith's still asleep."

"Do what?" Dawn raised an eyebrow questioningly but slipped off of the barstool and headed into the living room.  After clearing away stacks of books and papers, she settled onto the couch a little apprehensively.  "Let me in on the plan, Will.  It is my brain."

"Just some old-fashioned hypnosis.  Nothing fancy." Willow held up the strainer with a smile.  "Of course, I'm not very good at it so I might be using a teensy bit of magic if it doesn't seem to be working."

"Okay.  What do I do?"

"Well.  In the movies, I count back from ten and you go down a staircase or something."

"Not too graceful with stairs."

"We can use a ramp." 

"Great." Dawn rolled her eyes and took a deep breath.  "So I stare at the tea strainer thingy and you tell me I'm getting sleepy.  Sounds like a plan."

"Shhhh." Willow glanced at Faith a little nervously to make sure the Slayer was still sleeping soundly.  "It's worth a shot, right?  Unless you don't want to know where you were."

"No, I do.  I do.  Just…let's just do it, alright?"  She wiggled a bit to get comfortable and placed both hands palm down on her thighs.  

It took a few minutes and more than a few glares from Willow to stop feeling like an idiot and concentrate on the shiny object swinging back and forth in her vision.  Left, right.  Left right.  She was vaguely aware of Willow's lips moving soundlessly and her body getting heavier, sinking deeper into the couch.  Left, right.  Her eyelashes blurred her sight as they became too heavy to hold up, forcing her eyes closed.  Other senses were lulled into a peaceful slumber and she wondered vaguely if she was being swallowed into the belly of the couch cushions.  

Dawn?  I need you to concentrate on the last thing you remember in New Orleans.  Find that memory and grab onto it.  

Find a memory.  That shouldn't be too hard.  Floating in the darkness, she caught bits and snatches of conversations she recognized from her past.  Flashes of Buffy and the Scoobies.  Carefully sifting through them, she resisted the impulse to stop and watch the memories play out.  The ones of the trip home were still vividly painful and lonely, tugging at her heart with renewed intensity.  She followed those back until she found the comfortable lounge of Sanctuary and the unusual demon who had befriended Spike.  Buffy, Faith, Willow.  She watched sadly as Willow channeled Spike's soul through the Orb, the tearful exchange before Faith left to do what had to be done.  The Dawn in the lounge began to shake.

She grabbed onto the memory with all of the mental strength she could summon and leapt into the rabbit hole.

            Images of blood and fire swirled and dissolved as Cara gradually became aware of her surroundings.  Tough, clawed hands and bull horns curving away from endless, violent eyes.  The Beast.  She could remember the smell of brimstone, feel the phantom ache in her side where he had dug one claw through skin and muscle.  Dead bodies littered the floors like fallen leaves in a mortal changing of the seasons.  Every time she closed her eyes she was finding her way through the bodies, half carried by Wesley out of Wolfram and Hart.  

            Wesley.

            The curtains were unfamiliar, with the dim paint wearily flaking and falling away from the stained walls.  Nothing but the sound of her heart beating and determinedly keeping her alive to fill the silence.  Muscles were still languid from the slippery chains of the chemicals.  Drifting in the soft haze of almost waking, she wondered how long they would keep her conscious this time.  How long before fear took over and one more needle jabbed into her skin.  It had all started with a needle.  One tiny prick in an elevator before the gates of Hell opened up to swallow her.  

Done was done and dead was dead.  

            Fighting.  Killing.  It was the closest she came to living.  The moment before there was only dust or a blood stained corpse, that moment where she could stare Death in the face and _know_.  Just for a moment, she would know that she was still alive.  That she could still touch and taste and feel.  Traveling the road other Slayers had followed into darkness and pain.  To know.  Could anyone ever really know what it meant to be a Slayer?  Cara had fallen to the wayside, a wilted flower or forgotten seed tossed by the wind, and the line of truth became smudged by the relentless advance of indecision.  A legacy of blood and only the promise of endless sleep to urge her on. 

Just more of the emptiness that she no longer wanted to fill.  There were lines to be read and a part to be played but she couldn't find the energy to dig into the confusion to find them.  Didn't want to look into her own mind long enough to sift through the bits and pieces, reform the patterns she had found when there was nothing to distract her but the chirping of frogs and the rustle of the rainforest.  There was something she had to do.

It was fatigue that kept her still as the voices began to filter into her mind, as the words began to form a pattern she could recognize and understand.  Pressure and weight against her wrists told her that she was bound.  Again.  Nausea crept into the pit of her stomach as the chemicals broke down and dissolved, slipping away through blood vessels and leaving her muscles shivering with their absence.  Even if she had wanted to stretch her stiff and weary limbs, they would have been sluggish and unresponsive until the last tendrils of the drug were washed away.  The dull ache of her burns resumed their marching throb through her nerve endings even as her body repaired the damage from the inside out.  Healing the only wounds that could be healed.  

            "…we never discovered exactly what Connor was." Bits of Wesley's voice came into focus, resonating through her mind with bitter familiarity.  "From our observations of his abilities, we believed that he possessed many of the strengths of a vampire."

            "With none of the weaknesses?" Another man.  Giles.

            "It appeared that way." Wesley hesitated, leaving the room in expectant silence.  "It's not unreasonable to assume that he did possess other weaknesses.  Human weaknesses."

            "But you were able to confirm that he had a soul?"  

            "Yes."  

            "If Cara is correct and Spike is similar to Connor, then we must assume that Connor would have had the same reaction to Slayers."

            "I don't remember anything out of the ordinary when he met Faith."  Papers rustled softly.  "But it wasn't exactly a situation conducive to getting to know one another and I never thought to ask him."

            "Spike described it as an energy.  Electricity.  A burning sensation." A soft click meant that Giles had removed his glasses.  "And that it increases significantly with the proximity of the Slayers.  Given that being near three of them rendered him unconscious, that would appear to be a weakness."

            "If there was commonly more than one Slayer but this is a particular situation.  I don't believe there has ever been three active Slayers before."

            Soft footsteps sounded against the carpet in an even rhythm, "Unfortunately, the nature of Spike is probably the least of our concerns.  Have you spoken with Iverson?"

            "Briefly.  There have been reports from all over the globe of unusual demon activity.  He was quite apprehensive and believes that a large percentage of the demon population will be arriving in Sunnydale within the week."

            "Riley and the military have begun to plan for the worst." There was pause in the footsteps before Giles resumed pacing.  "I have asked him to prepare a containment cell for Cara.  I also believe this is the best course of action, given her current instability."

            Silence.

            "Wesley?"

            "I have given my opinion of the situation to Iverson and he has made his decision." Wesley's voice was hollow.  

            "And that would be?"

            "That she is beyond any method of help available to us." 

            "What are you suggesting?" 

            "Nothing." Wesley cut Giles off sharply.  "She refused a Watcher and I have no authority over her or her fate.  I have offered my personal opinion only.  Given the extent of what was done to her, I'm surprised that she is lucid at all."

            "But she is lucid."

            "And quite dangerous." 

            "There is nothing we can do?"

            "Iverson believes that we should salvage what we can and make the decision that is best for Cara."  His tone softened.  "Dr. James has agreed to remove and cryogenically preserve her ovaries for future use in regenerating the Slayer line."

            "And Cara?"  There was resignation in Giles' voice.

            "Dr. James has assured me that it will be done quickly and painlessly once he finishes the extraction."  Silence stretched uncomfortably into several minutes.

"Buffy will object."  Giles sighed wearily.  "You are sure there is no other way?"

"What the Council did to her was horrendous and what Lilah did to her was brutal."  There was a chord of desolation in Wesley's careful phrasing.  "But the Council didn't make her a killer, they merely taught her to be more efficient.  Lilah's memories didn't make her kill those men, they simply took away any reason not to.  We cannot undo what she has become."

"Perhaps it is for the best."

"It is the only peace she'll ever know, Giles.  I know you understand that much."

It was Giles' turn to be silent.

The conversation turned back to demons and battle plans.  Cara retreated into the aching cocoon of her tired body, finding solace in the pain that had become her constant companion.  She could feel sunlight dripping onto her arm from a gap in the curtains, blinking the haze away to focus on the golden light beside her.  From the height of the sun, she guessed that it was nearly afternoon.  How much time did she have?  

She already knew that part.  Knew the feeling of poison dripping into her veins and numbing muscles into useless stone blocks, knew how it felt to lie on a table with the smell of her own blood in the air.  Not death.  That would come later when they were done stripping her down for spare parts down like an old, battered car.  She wasn't afraid of dying.  How could she be?  How could she taste and feel death every moment of every day and still be afraid?  There was no place for fear when every time she closed her eyes, she dreamt of blood and endlessly vacant eyes glaring up from broken bodies.  

Just one more needle.  

She hated needles.  Hated the sting and the liquid that stole away her will, her power, left her weak and helpless to fight against them.  And the men would ramble on about what was going to happen to her in that soothing, wild animal voice that she had learned to fervently despise.  Not an animal.  Not just an animal.  She had a human face, human hands, and that meant she couldn't be just an animal.  

The tightly woven nylon around her wrists was smooth to the touch.  Almost lovingly, she pulled her bound hands closer and brushed the smooth surface against her cheek.  Imagining.  Warm instead of cool.  Rough with five o'clock shadow instead of the touch of silk.  For a moment there was tremor of nervousness that was Cara's forgotten innocence.  Just a moment before it was swept aside in the visual glory of Lilah's experience.  She stilled immediately and forced her body to remain motionless rather than rip the restraints away from her skin.  Remade in the bitch's image, there was no hint or sliver of inside or out that had escaped the withering, sickening touch of Lilah's dead hands.  Still pulling Cara's strings the way she had pulled Angel's and Wesley's.  

            Cara kept waiting.  Kept biting and clawing for the clarity and the sanity she knew was possible.  For the time she would close her eyes and see memories that weren't Lilah's, hear a voice that wasn't Wesley's.  Know something beyond the madness.  Why had she come back?  Why couldn't she just tell her aching limbs to stop moving and wait for the end?  The blood kept screaming in her head, adrenaline and rage pouring through her veins until it wasn't about survival or victory.  Just blood and pain.  Primitive and basic.  She had just wanted to help and was no help at all.  The floods were rolling in to swallow the earth in a single gulp, tides of evil washing one last wave before there was nothing left between them and the endless eyes of humanity.  She wanted to care even when she couldn't feel anything but the gnawing ache of emptiness.

            Emptiness was better than the overpowering rage.  The tidal wave of fury and bloodlust that threatened to drown her in darkness and evil.  To wash away everything she had ever known or believed, every moment in her past that didn't burn or splinter.  She focused on the worn threads of the dappled bedspread, searching for something to pull her away from the darkness inside.  How had she fallen so far?  

            Half expecting them to notice that she was awake, she turned her head just enough to see them standing in the doorway.  Her Watcher.  Buffy's Watcher.  The image of Wesley bathed in sunlight soaked into her mind like a drug.  There were dark circles under his eyes and a weariness that she had never noticed before as the world finally began to take its toll.  For a moment, she let the memories drift back into the forefront.   The taste of his skin and the touch of his hands.  Gentle and soothing.  

            _Lilah._

            It had never been her.  His touch had never been meant for her.  She was just Cara.  Dangerous and insane Cara.  Another check mark on the To Do list that Wesley carried for Angel like a medal of honor.  Doing what had to be done.  That was Wesley's strength, his gift.  Making the decisions that no one else had the stomach to make, breaking the rules no one else was willing to break.  There had been no true gentleness in his caress, no truth in his lips, and she was just one more burden for him to carry.  Doing Angel's dirty work.  The same way he was now standing aside and letting the Council put her down like a rabid animal.  She wanted to close her eyes against the vision of golden sunlight wrapping him in a warm embrace.  Wanted to look at him and feel something.  Anything.

            Six months of practice made it easier to turn inward and block out the world around her.  Slow and easy breaths that made the insanity just a fraction less and kept the blind panic at bay as her mind churned through the conflicting past in search of truth.  It was about control.  Keeping the Slayer tightly leashed until _she_ was needed to rip and tear through whatever lay before _her_.  Cara was just the shell that _she_ slept within, the mask that _she_ wore to hide _her_ face from the world.  Lilah was an infection, a cancer eating away at the disguise and determined to strip everything away until _she_ was exposed and destroyed.  Seen for the monster _she_ really was.  

            For a quiet moment, Cara was almost aware of the Slayer itching nervously beneath the surface as _she_ assessed the threat of death that awaited them both.  Lilah's memories were strangely silent, offering nothing.  There was a sense of relief that it would soon be over and each second would no longer be spent in the inferno of war.  Just flesh and blood and bone.  A mortal coil to be sloughed off and returned to dust in the belly of the earth.  Her mind mechanically processed the sounds around her without interest in what the voices were saying as they moved around the room or what the hands were doing as they brushed against her raw skin.  

            "Riley should be ready by now."  Wesley checked his watch quickly and nodded toward the open door.  "I would like to stay with her, explain what's going to happen and make sure she's taken care of."

            "I would like to inform Buffy before Dr. James proceeds with the surgery."  Giles replaced his glasses quickly and stepped through the doorway.  

            "Iverson is expecting to hear from her."  

            With a curt nod, Giles disappeared from view and Wesley closed the door behind him, shutting out the enticing glow of sunlight.  The room darkened, filled with the rusty hue of the curtains hanging over the window.  One hand rested against the door, his shoulders rising and falling slowly beneath the weight of a burden she couldn't see.  As though the door was the only thing between him and collapse.

            "How long have you been awake?" He didn't turn around, his words precise and carefully measured.

            Cara tucked her arms tighter against her body and kept silent.  There was nothing she wanted to say.  There was nothing she wanted to hear from him.  Not anymore.

            "What I did."  He paused, taking another deep breath before finally turning around and meeting her gaze.  His face was deliberately neutral.  "I did what I had to do.  I'm sorry if it hurt you."

            "Sorry."  Her voice caught and scratched hoarsely in her throat.  

"We needed to know what's in your head.  Time is running out and so are our choices."  

"We." Cara repeated softly.  

"We didn't want any of this to happen, Cara." His voice was almost comforting.

She wanted to leave it all behind.  The motel room, Sunnydale.  She wanted to go back to the comfort of the jungle.  Of endlessly silent days with a rigid routine to keep the Slayer bound and leashed.  The pity in his half smile sickened her.  Still pretending to care when he was simply delivering her to the butcher.  When he was the one who had written away pieces of her and the life in her veins.  Who had kissed and touched her with another woman's name on his lips.  

"I wish there was a way to help you."  His steps were hesitant as he crossed the room and eased himself down onto the bed beside her, reaching for her hands and working at the knots keeping them bound.  "A way to erase what has happened to you."

For a moment she felt the freedom of unrestricted movement, a tiny slice of what it would mean to be freed from the shackles of all that she was and was not.  Warm and familiar hands brushed against her skin and she longed to feel the same hunger for his touch that she had known for six long months.  The delirious ache that had always filled Lilah when she had been around Wesley, willing to do anything to feel the roughness of his hands once more.  All that came was the bitter emptiness of knowing that he looked through her and past her but did not see her as Cara.  He saw a Slayer.  He saw his past with Lilah and a problem to be solved but he did not see her.  He would never see her.  

            She was numb, vaguely registering that the man she had once respected was not to be trusted.  That he believed she was lost forever, predestined and chosen to be a killer.  Everything she had seen in his eyes was tainted by his disappointment and his fear.  His belief that she was wrong, that she was broken and damaged beyond repair.  And his shattered hope that he could reshape and remold her into a more suitable image of what he thought she was supposed to be.  

            With guarded sympathy, he kept hold of her hands.  "You've never known anything but pain and death.  I want you to find some peace."

            Cara didn't even try to fight against the waves of memories washing over her.  "I've suffered enough."  It was a hollow echo of the single memory that Lilah had cherished above all others.

            "More than anyone should ever have to suffer."  Tenderly, Wesley brushed a stray hair away from her face.  "But it will be over soon, I promise."

            "Don't." There were a thousand words that could have followed but no reason to let them slip past her lips.  He was not listening to her and he never would.  His eyes would only see Lilah, his ears would only hear her voice.         

"There isn't much time left."  His eyes were a little too bright in the darkened motel room.  "Is there anything I can do?  To make it easier."

Stiffly, she managed to push up into a sitting position, close enough to feel the soft fabric of his sweater and breathe in the clean, distinctive scent that was Wesley.  "How long?"

"Once we get to the base, a few hours.  We don't have to leave right away."  

"It'll be over." She leaned against his shoulder cautiously and slowly drew her hands away from his.  "No more fighting."

"It will all be over."  His arms slipped around her gently, pivoting on the bed to settle her against his chest.  "You won't have to hurt anymore.  I can give you that much."

Cara let him hold her.  Rough hands caressed her back lightly as he dutifully tried to comfort her.  No awkwardness, no stiffness.  There was no need to uphold any sort of propriety now that she had been declared broken and her sentence passed.  The contact, the touch, that she had craved without understanding why was now hollow and cold.  His fingers caught in her hair, tugging softly as he combed through the heavy locks.  Before Lilah, she would not have known how empty the gesture was.  

She wouldn't have known that it was all a lie.

            Lowering her head brought her deeper into his embrace, the sound of his heartbeat resounding in her ear as she pressed against his chest.   The contrast of smooth, unbroken skin and the angry burns curling up her arm was a stark reminder of where she was.  How she had raced from the jungles of Brazil with death at her heels, knowing only that she needed to get back to Los Angeles.  Held on to that thought when there had been nothing else to keep the darkness at bay, until her body ached with the effort of just staying sane long enough to get to them.  To tell them something she could no longer remember.  It had all fallen apart, scattering to the far corners of her mind when she had seen Wesley again.  She had lost her grip and plunged back into not knowing who or what she was.  Maybe she would never be able to hold on as long as he was there, remaining unreachable even as his hands played across her shoulders.

Now it was too late.  It had all blurred together into the chaos of her mind and there was nothing left but the nagging feeling that she had lost something important.  Forgotten the key.  Let it slip away with the sight of his face and the sound of his voice.  Washed it away with the warmth of his touch even knowing that it wasn't meant for her.  Beneath the surface, the Slayer bristled.  He had looked at her with brilliant blue eyes and she had been content to drown in them.  

Her thoughts began to converge toward a single, focused point.  His every touch was just another deception, his every word a honey coated lie meant to make her death a little easier to accept.  The death that he assumed was a foregone conclusion and a necessity.  More importantly, as long as she was near him, she would be lost and useless.  He had made her weak.  

"Cara?" His rich voice was husky.

 Waiting for any doubt or reluctance, she stared down at her hands and wondered if they would ever be washed clean of the blood they had shed.  The world was empty now, everything that had anchored her shown to be false security.  She had come too far to fall, fought too hard to just let go, and she wasn't ready to die.  

Slowly, she lifted her head until she met his eyes, forcing back the rush of emotions that would have overwhelmed her.  Desire, hurt, anger, love.  A whirlwind that had begun to rip her apart long before Lilah's emotions had been added to the mix, before she'd had names to give them.  Her hand moved of its own accord and she watched the flicker of alarm flash in his eyes as she reached up to press her palm against his cheek.  Uneasiness as he tried to decipher her touch.  He didn't trust her.

"Cara?"  He was nervous.

"You can't save me." She whispered, almost mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest.  The fingers of her right hand skimmed over the rough fabric of his blue jeans, down the inside of his calf, as he searched her face for an explanation of her question.

"I'm sorry."  

"Because I'm not the one you're trying to save."  Her hand stopped over the subtle outline just above his ankle, catching the cuff of his pant leg and sliding it up gently.  The slender dagger was expected and familiar.  Military issue.  Cool against her skin, there was something natural about the weight of a weapon in her hand.  

"I don't understand."  His expression was puzzled.  Eyes widened as the blade sunk into his stomach, his grip on her shoulders tightening and color draining from his cheeks.  A low hiss slipped through his teeth as she pushed the knife further into his body, hot blood seeping through the fabric and staining her hand.  

"You never did."  

            "There has been a change of plans."  Holland Manners hadn't changed a single hair or crease in his expensive suit since his death.  Even the fact that Lilah found him to be insufferably patronizing remained undiminished by time or mortality.

            "Obviously." Lilah settled for looking out the windows of the limousine rather than rolling her eyes.

            "The Senior Partners felt that your input would be valuable in this situation."

            "With all due respect, this situation is no longer my concern." She frowned as Holland handed a slick, black and white photograph across the seat.  "What is this?"  

Her eyes refused to focus on the image, fiercely denying that they recognized the shape of the man slumped on the floor of a seedy motel room.  That they wouldn't have immediately known the slope of his shoulders and curve of his jaw.  Wesley.  His eyes were closed and there was a lifelessness that Lilah could see even in the photograph.  With all the glory of a crime scene photograph, she could pronounce the cause of death as a sharp object to the stomach.  It took every ounce of willpower to keep holding the photograph even as it burned into her lifeless fingers.

            "The surveillance team reported it immediately and the seers have given confirmation." He smiled pleasantly.  "As you can guess, the Senior Partners are quite interested.  All indications thus far have led us to believe that Miss Sewell was still firmly on the side of good.  Psychotic and unbalanced as she may be.  Our attempts at gaining an insider in this circle of do-gooders has also been problematic."

            "The artist?" With difficulty, she pulled her eyes away from the picture.

            "Is hardly a match for a Slayer.  Although she may have success in other areas, we never believed she would be capable of actually killing Miss Sewell."  Casually shrugging away the issue, he stroked the luxurious upholstery absently.  "But this has presented us with a new opportunity."

            "Which is?"

            "Recruitment, naturally."

            "You can't be serious."

            "The Senior Partners are quite serious." Leaning forward, he focused on her attentively.  "This was an act of intent and premeditation according to the seers.  One that cannot be explained in any other way.  It was cognizant and deliberate."

            "Do we know why?"  

            "That is the question that fascinates me.  I don't suppose you could shed any light on the subject?"

At that moment, Lilah had realized that she'd counted on both her own and Cara's feelings for Wesley to keep him safe.  "No.  Are we sure she did this?"

"Surveillance also took these." 

More photographs were handed over.  There was a stark black and white of Cara standing in the doorway of the motel, the knife in her hand still dripping with the murder behind her.  Another of the Slayer looking in the direction of the camera, only the intensity of her gaze giving any indication of emotion.  Lilah's grip tightened involuntarily until the thick paper bent and wrinkled around her fingers. 

            "Precisely why the Senior Partners are so interested." Holland chuckled amusedly.  "Of all of them, why would she kill him?  It's fascinating, isn't it?"

            "Something like that." Lilah forced a brittle smile.  "But I can't help you with what's going on in the bitch's head so I'll be on my way." It was impossible to keep the bitterness and dislike from tainting her words.  

            "Lilah, Lilah." He shook his head with paternal disapproval.  "You know as well as I do that Sunnydale is going to be completely destroyed in less than twenty-four hours.  When the party starts, it won't end until they've managed to kill all three Slayers and probably every human being in a considerable radius.  What we have here is a window of opportunity to save a Slayer for ourselves."

            "I was under the impression that killing the Slayers was the whole idea."

            "It is, it is.  Slayers are typically champions for good and truth and all of those honorable ideals.  But a Slayer with, what is that bit of prophecy?  A soul drenched in blood.  Ironic, isn't it?  All this time we believed that Faith was our best candidate.  It's very interesting indeed.  The Senior Partners merely want you to offer her a deal.  If she refuses, then she dies with the rest and there's no harm done."

            "And the negotiations won't be threatened by the fact that the we haven't eliminated all of the Slayers?" Lilah raised an eyebrow testily.

            He dismissed her concern with a wave, "Corruption is as good as death.  The only requirement is that there be no Champion race or meddlesome Powers That Be to interfere when the investors arrive.  Given the advanced time table, the Senior Partners feel that they have more than adequate time to fulfill our end of the bargain."

            "Fine.  I offer her a deal.  The usual hired gun contract or does she get special treatment?"

            "We've tailored a contract just for Miss Sewell." Holland reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper.  

            "And you know where she is?"

            "The driver has directions.  Once we arrive, you will have less than half an hour to convince Miss Sewell to join the team before the risk of exposure becomes significant.  It would be best not to tip our hand just yet."

            "If I can't convince her?" 

            "I doubt she'll survive the next few days alone and I don't presume that Miss Summers or anyone else will be particularly inclined to help her.  She really has no other option if she wants to live."

            Lilah nodded and kept her mouth shut.  She was just the delivery girl and the Senior Partners wanted the Slayer served up on a platter.  If they couldn't kill her, they'd turn her into a weapon.  If the girl's fate had been up to Lilah, she would have had the psychotic bitch agonizingly tortured to death with every second recorded on videotape so she could watch it over and over for the rest of eternity.  


	46. Retribution

**Retribution – **

It felt as though only a few seconds had passed between the time Xander laid his head down on the pillow, wrapped his arms around his warm and comforting girlfriend to drift into sleep, and the moment he was rudely yanked from that pleasant dream world by the sound of the doorbell.  And Bugsy.  Blinking sleep from his eyes, he squinted irritably at the tabby feline pawing at his feet.

            "Why don't you go answer the door?" He wiggled his toes a little to catch the animal's attention.  "Go on.  Be the devious kitty I know you are."

            "Meow." Bugsy eyed him expectantly and batted once more at his left foot.

            With a groan, Xander carefully extracted himself from Jane's legs and rolled out of bed.  "You could wake up your owner, you know.  Daddy got to bed late last night.  Monsters to fight, vampires to dust.  It's all very tiring."  Yielding to the caress of silken fur against his ankles, he reached down to scratch Bugsy's ears affectionately.  

            The doorbell buzzed again.

            "All right, all right." Hoping that he was presentable enough for whoever was waiting on the doorstep, Xander shrugged into his robe and tried to stumble quietly through the apartment with Bugsy at his heels.  Running a quick hand through his hair, he unlocked the door and prepared to tell whoever it was that he wasn't interested.

            "Xander?"  Leia Reilly was the last person he had expected to see.  The fact that she looked as though she hadn't slept in days didn't do much to ease the surprise.

            "Leia?  What are you doing?  Is Willow okay?"  

            "I don't know." Leia bit her lip nervously and glanced over her shoulder.  "May I come in?"

            "Sure, sure." Xander nodded, closing the door as soon as she was inside.  "What happened?"

            She took a deep breath and visibly steeled herself for what she was about to say.  "I know."

            "You know."  He repeated, scratching his head a little and attempting to dislodge the weaving feline from his legs.  "That's a good thing.  Knowing.  I like knowing things."

            "I know about the vampires and Buffy and Willow and all of you.  I didn't say anything because I didn't want to pry and because I didn't really want to be involved.  It made it less real if I could just pretend I didn't know.  Sort of." Flustered, she twisted the edges of the scarf knotted around her neck.

            "Oh.  You know.  Well.  That's good, less explaining on my part."  Xander gave up trying to fend off the cat paws treading over his feet, bending down and grabbing Bugsy by the scruff of the neck.  The action also provided a shield for the mental gymnastics his tired brain was trying to accomplish.  Find out how much she knew and how, get the facts and nothing but the truth or a certain Slayer would be none too happy with him.  Then again, if he wasn't understanding and helpful, he'd be on the black lightning end of a very powerful witch.  Holding the cat tightly, he nodded toward the kitchen.  "Does Willow know you know?"

            "Not yet.  I was going to tell her when it came up.  If it came up.  But now…" She trailed off, eyes darting away from his gaze.

            "What's wrong with now?" Xander opened the kitchen door wide enough to toss Bugsy into the backyard and hurled the protesting ball of fur into the bright winter sunshine.  "Sorry, I think that cat is trying to kill me.  Or it might just be a cat thing.  Can I get you anything?  Coffee?"

            "Already had two cups, thanks." Leia sat down nervously.  "I would have gone to Buffy's but it's not safe there.  I don't even know if it's safe here but I thought you might know some way to contact them."

            "Whoa, back that train up.  Not safe?  Casa Summers is probably the safest place in Sunnydale and I should know, I've rebuilt enough of it."

            "It's bugged."

            "You're not talking about cockroaches, are you?"

            "Surveillance." Tugging at the scarf anxiously, she sighed and her shoulders fell.  "There was a man at the apartment yesterday from some big law firm.  It was something he said, about audio and video only doing so much.  I've been trying to figure out a way to let Willow know but they probably bugged the phones too.  Do you guys have some sort of code you could use?"

            "He didn't happen to say what law firm, did he?" Xander glanced at the clock quickly and tried to guess if anyone at the Summers house would be awake.  

            "Wolfram and Hart.  They were interested in whoever Buffy has staying at her house.  A man named Angel and a girl who's supposedly insane."

            "No supposed about it.  Anything else?"

            She stared down at her hands, her voice soft when she finally continued.  "He wanted me to kill her.  The girl.  He promised that he could give me my family back if I did.  I didn't believe him, of course."

            "Oh." Xander blinked in surprise.  

            "Look, I know it sounds crazy but you probably see crazy shit everyday, right?" A silent plea in her eyes, she reached up and untied the scarf.  On the left side of her neck, he recognized the twin scars of a vampire bite.    
            "That's how you know." He smiled with regretful understanding.

            "When I first came to Sunnydale, I was like every other naïve little girl.  Barely out of high school and just trying to…to forget.  Buffy saved my life."  She covered the scars with one hand, cheeks coloring slightly with embarrassment.  "This might be my chance to repay her."

            "Tell you what." Xander tightened his robe as he stood up.  "First, I'll slip into something a little more presentable, and then we'll worry about thwarting evil law firms."

            "Thank you."

            "Don't worry.  Everything's under control."

***

            The door was ajar.  And that was never a good thing.  

            Fred raised her hand to knock anyway, feeling like the unsuspecting heroine in a bad horror movie where the killer is always waiting behind the door.   Knuckles struck the wood and it inched away from her hand with a feeble creak.  "Wes?" Only the shuddering of the door answered her call.  Frowning, she glanced down at her cell phone again to reassure herself that his number was displayed across the LCD.  "Wes?  Are you there?"

            Taking the step across the threshold was as good as holding still and baring her throat to whatever psychotic axe murderer was getting ready to jump at her.  Why couldn't he have chosen a less creepy motel?  Something less Norman Bates.  Blinking into the shadows, she glanced behind the door just to make sure the space was unoccupied and let out a sigh of relief.  No knife wielding monsters in sight.  Apprehension gave way to annoyance as she tucked her phone into her jacket pocket and reached for the light switch.  It wasn't exactly considerate of Wesley to call her an hour earlier than planned and wake her up from the best sleep she'd had in weeks only to hang up as she was fumbling for the call button.  

            "Wes?"  His satchel was leaning against the rickety bedside table and several books sat neatly in a pile beside the soiled lamp.  It wasn't like Wesley to leave his books behind.  Puzzled, she touched the stack of books lightly as though they could tell her where he had gone.  A long strip of woven nylon cord was the only occupant in the queen size bed, looking more like a flattened snake coiled in the rumpled comforter.  There was a dark, rust colored stain along the edge of the bed that caught her eye.  Reaching down to brush her fingers over the splotch, she was startled when it felt damp and cold.  She pulled her hand back quickly, heart pounding as she stared down at the scarlet stain on her fingertips.  Blood.

            "Wesley?"  Fighting against the rising panic, she followed the trail of blood down the side of the bed and stumbled as she rounded the corner.  "Wesley!" 

He was crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed, nearly hidden in the shadows.  Her hands were shaking as she rolled him over, stomach rebelling against the sight of the blood covering his abdomen and hands.  His eyes were closed and face ashen.  The cell phone nearly slipped out of her fingers as she tried to dial 911.  Frantically searching for the wound with her other hand, she pressed firmly against what appeared to be the source of the blood.    

            "Nine one one.  What is your emergency?"

            "I need an ambulance.  Sunnydale Motel, just off the highway.  Room thirteen."  Fred pinned the phone against her shoulder, fighting with the dead weight of Wesley's body as she tried to maneuver him into a better position.  "Stab wound to the lower abdomen, I think.  He's lost a lot of blood and he's not breathing."

            "An ambulance is on the way.  Are you in danger, ma'am?"

            "No.  I don't think so."  She glanced over her shoulder quickly.  "There's no one here."

            "Did you see the attacker?"

            Fred felt her heart sink as she realized that there was only one person who could have done this.  "No.  I just got here.  I'm going to try CPR.  Please hurry."  She tossed the phone away and turned her attention back to Wesley, trying to remember the steps he had taught her.  Head tilted back, nose pinched.  It wasn't until she felt his chest rise with her own breath that she noticed the tears in her eyes.  

            "Come on, Wes, come on."  She tried again.  Nothing.  Cupping one hand over the other, she pressed down on his chest with the heel of her palm.  "You've got to try, please.  Come on."  She counted to fifteen and moved back to breathing, trying to control her sobs as much as possible.  Two more breaths.  Her hands were coated with his blood when she started the chest compressions again. "Fight, damnit!  You can't give up.  You can't!"

            Fifteen.  Two.  Repeat.  She kept counting, barely able to see through the veil of tears pouring down her cheeks, until the paramedics arrived and pulled her away from him.  Numb and trembling, she tried to stay out of the way, wincing as they cut away his sweater and t-shirt, prepping him for the electric shock that might bring him back.  She jumped involuntarily when the paddles discharged, jolting Wesley's body and nearly sending her running to the bathroom to vomit.  Silently, she begged Wesley to hold on.  

            "We've got a pulse."  One of the paramedics announced.  There was a flurry of motion as they continued to work.  Oxygen, bandages, blood.  It all blurred into a hurricane that whirled past her.

            "Wait!" She finally convinced her muscles to move.  "Is he going to be all right?"

            "We need to get him to the hospital, ma'am." One of the paramedics answered briskly, his grim expression discouraging her from trying to follow Wesley any further.

            Fred nodded quickly, "Fine, fine.  I know.  I'll…I need to call people.  Will I be able to see him?"

            "Check at the main desk of Sunnydale Memorial."

            Then they were gone, sirens screeching into the distance and leaving her alone in the dreary motel room.  Air left her lungs in a whoosh and took her strength with it.  The cell phone was a lead weight in her hands when she picked it up and tried to remember the right numbers.  This wasn't part of the plan.  She wasn't supposed to arrive and find Wesley bleeding to death.  No.  Already dead.  The air in her throat choked her, breaking into desperate sobs that shook her entire body.  There was blood on her hands, splattered over her blouse and jeans in a morbid expressionist painting.  Her fingers had turned to unwieldy stone and her mind wouldn't focus long enough to conjure the right patterns.  All she could see was the image of his unnaturally pale face, the blood spreading out in a crimson wave.  Reality came crashing through the haze of shock.  

Cara was gone.  

"Oh God." An instant later, Fred was on her feet and running.

***

Three telephones ruined the peaceful silence with a disorganized symphony of beeps and chirps, each one declaring itself in a cacophonous blend of digitized noise.  The sleeping occupants, unfamiliar with Xander Harris' apartment, took longer than usual to realize what kind of creatures had roused them.  Gunn's was the first to be silenced as he rolled over, engulfing his tiny cell phone with one hand and blinking sleepily at the miniscule buttons.  A few moments later, Gwen was scowling at the landline and pressing the receiver against one shoulder while she struggled into the clothing she had discarded a few short hours earlier.  The last cell phone was still shrieking Broadway show tunes from beneath the pillow Lorne had used in an attempt to ignore it.  

Lorne opened one eye just enough to peer out of the pile of blankets when he heard Gunn's voice and what could have been a painful thud.  He winced as he watched Gunn hop from one foot to the other, trying to pull on his jeans and slip into his shoes simultaneously.  Another thud resounded through the apartment when he crashed into the doorframe leading to the bedroom.

"Fred?  Slow down, girl!  Take a breath somewhere in all those words."  Gunn pinned the phone against his shoulder to reach down and tie one shoe.    

"It's Xander." Gwen announced as she appeared behind Gunn with the cordless phone in one hand.  "He says we've got trouble of the evil law firm variety."

"Sure hope he doesn't want to use his shower." Lorne muttered grumpily, giving up on getting back to sleep and uncurling from the much too small sofa to stretch his back.  "I was planning on a marathon session with the luxury of hot water."  His phone stopped chirping as he unburied it.  "Lorne at your service.  Hello?"  There was no answer.  He checked the caller ID and frowned, recognizing Wesley's cell phone number.

"Who's dead?" The apartment went silent again, eyes turning to Gunn in tense anticipation.  "Wesley's dead?  Not dead?  Fred!  Fred!  Calm down."

"Hold on, Xander.  Fred's on the panic line." Gwen covered her phone quickly.  "Is she all right?"

Gunn was silent, face drawn in concentration before he continued sharply.  "On our way.  Keep your eyes open."  The phone snapped shut with a crack and he was back to tying his shoes.  "Cara went slice and dice on Wesley.  He's in surgery now.  We need to get everyone together, the crazy bitch is loose and there's no way in hell I want to run into her without some serious Slayer backup."

"Xander?" Gwen turned back to her phone.  "Can you get word to Buffy?  Wes is down and Cara's pulled a Houdini.  We're heading to the ER.  Thanks."

"Good morning, Sunnydale." Lorne rubbed his eyes tiredly before squinting at his phone again.  "This makes a whole lotta no sense at all."          

Gunn clipped his watch onto his wrist briskly, cold and businesslike as he finished dressing.  "What's there to make sense of?  I knew we should've offed psycho Slayer when we had the chance.  Fred's camped out in the waiting room wishing she had an automatic weapon just in case freak show comes back to finish him off.  We'll hit the drive through for some bean juice.  Lorne, you stay in the back and keep your green ass out of sight."

"No need to get snippy."  The demon sighed as he slipped into his loafers, abandoning the royal blue suit coat where he'd dropped it that morning.  "I was talking about the wacky little detail of Wesley's cell phone making a call of its own free electronic will."  

"What?" Gwen looked up as she yanked her hair into a sleek ponytail.  

Lorne took another puzzled look at his phone.  "Wish I was hallucinating, Electra.  Somehow I don't think Wes is making any phone calls."

"And Fred was on the phone with me.  I don't like it." Gunn frowned over his shoulder as he headed for the front door. 

It exploded inward with the shriek of metal hinges ripping from the frame in a shower of splinters.  Gunn and Gwen dove for cover and Lorne scrambled back to the safety of the sofa.  Panic shot through him when he saw Cara standing in the hallway.  Her t-shirt and right arm were dark with spattered blood, a knife held loosely in one hand and her expression more than a little frightening.

The moment stilled and crystallized into helplessness.  Lorne could feel his mouth opening, the words forming too slowly even as his eyes followed Cara through the doorway.  Gunn was the first to respond, grabbing hold of a lamp and swinging it with all the strength he could muster.  It whistled over Cara's head as she ducked and rolled, sweeping his legs out from under him as she spun.  He was climbing back onto his feet an instant later, determined to stay in the game.  

"Big mistake coming here."  He taunted coolly, shrugging his shoulders to loosen the joints.  Fearlessly determined, he punched out with his left fist and then swung with his right when Cara blocked his first hit.  Her braid whipped over her shoulder as her head jerked with the impact of the blow.  They locked into a pattern of blocks and swings.  Gunn attacked and Cara defended.  Lorne ducked as the bloody knife sailed through the air and lodged in the wall behind him.  Scrambling out of the way of breaking furniture, he tried unsuccessfully to pull Gwen away from the battle.

"Distract her!" Gwen hissed, keeping out of reach long enough to slip one hand to the small of her back and the electronic switch that controlled the power in her hands.

"Not sure this is a grand idea."  Lorne resisted the urge to cheer when Gunn landed another punch.

"You know he can't beat her.  Just get her attention, I'll do the rest."

Another thud caught his attention and he noticed that Gunn was slower getting up this time, making the decision much easier.  "Sure thing, princess."  

He knew it was only a few seconds but it felt as though an eternity had passed before he saw an opportunity.  Wood crunched as Gunn crashed into a bar stool and Lorne could hear Cara's footsteps suspended in time when she moved forward in pursuit.  Cursing his lack of a better plan, he stepped into her path and the line of fire.  He closed his eyes when he saw her fingers curl into a fist, arm pulling back as she got ready to send him flying across the room.  But the blow never came.  Cautiously, still tense and waiting for inevitable pain, he opened one eye to see what had happened.  He saw recognition and concentration in her brown eyes, the genuine frustration of someone attempting to pull a memory or idea from the unreachable depths of their mind.   Her stance was unmistakably military, as though she was still trapped in the jungle with demons and commandos.  Or trying to get back there.

Lorne held his hands out in a gesture of truce, palms facing the Slayer.  "See?  No one has to get hurt."  

"What's a little more blood on her resume?" Gunn asked coldly in the background.

"Ix nay on the sarcasm, big guy." Lorne laughed nervously.  "We can negotiate.  A little give, a little take, find a peaceful solution."

"We can't let her go." Gwen's voice was ice, the miniature lightning bolt arcing between her hands was the only visible sign of anger.  "And I doubt she'll agree to play nice."

"You're the one with the brilliant ideas, sugar."  Lorne kept smiling at Cara, wishing her intense gaze would focus on someone else.  His blood chilled as the corner of her mouth turned up in a speculative smile.

"Wonder if Xander has a shotgun squirreled away in this place." There was a barely audible note of pain beneath the bravado of Gunn's sarcasm.

 "Go."  The word was out of his mouth before Lorne actually realized that he understood.  That he knew why Cara hadn't attacked him and was now watching him with such rigorous focus.

"I can take her." Gwen argued quickly.

"She didn't come here for you."  The truth began to sink in as the words drifted into silence.  Lorne slowly dropped his hands, wishing the sick feeling inside would go away.  

"We're not going to leave you." Gunn moved forward quickly, standing defensively at Lorne's side.  "Not taking the chance that she'll cut you open too."

"Get out of here, Gunn." Lorne emphasized his name and hoped that he would get the hint.  "Go join the gang.  There's nothing you can do.  Either of you."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure that I don't want you pissing her off.  Call in the cavalry, call in the entire Marine Corps if you want.  Just get out now." Lorne motioned to the door irritably.  

The heavy silence was worse after Gunn ushered Gwen out of the apartment with a single, meaningful look back.  There was no doubt that he would return with at least one Slayer in tow.  Now Lorne just had to play the cards in his meager hand and stay alive until then.

"You have to sing."  That seemed to unnerve her just slightly.  For a moment, he wondered if she was simply going to change her mind and dissect him on the spot.

"Sing what?" Cara's voice was rough.

Grimacing at the bloodstains on her clothes and skin, knowing that it was Wesley's blood, he slowly righted one of the bar stools and took a seat.  "Whatever you had in mind.  A nice aria, maybe?  If I remember right, you're an alto.  A bit on the rough side but nothing a little breath support couldn't fix."

"Don't make me kill you."  

It was a strange combination of a threat and a plea that caught at Lorne's curiosity.  "I'm definitely on board for not dying.  You're running this show, my violent prima donna, sing away."

***

Riley was frantically trying to juggle two cell phones and the landline when Sam stepped through the sliding glass doors, giving her a nod to let her know that he saw her before leaping back into the turmoil.  The communications center was in a state of obvious panic, a constant hum of feet and voices filling the air and amplifying the tension in the room.

"Where do you need me?" Sam pulled Aaron closer to her side and stepped out of the heavy traffic lane through the room.  Her husband shifted his grip on receiver against his ear and dropped one of the cell phones unceremoniously onto the nearest flat surface.  He waved her toward the side of the room and the lesser chaos of his office.  A flash of a smile was all he could give when Aaron climbed into the big leather chair, nearly disappearing behind the piles of documents.

"Wyndam-Pryce is in surgery and she's taken Lorne hostage.  Is that his name?  No sir, that's all I know.  No, Faith is here.  I don't know.  Who?"

Sam winced as a tiny foot jabbed at the interior of her abdomen and tried to stretch the tight muscles in her lower back as she waited patiently for Riley to finish what he was doing.  She could have stopped one of the officers and asked for information but understood that Riley needed to tell her as much as she needed to know.  It gave him a chance to organize and focus his thoughts.  

"Buffy, wait." Riley switched phones quickly.  "Just sit tight.  There's nothing you can do right now."  He winced at whatever was said on the other end of the line and glared at the phone before hanging it up.  Down to one, he listened intently for several minutes before giving a brisk agreement and tucking the phone into the holster on his belt.

"What happened?" Sam settled onto the edge of the desk, reaching out to brush the hair away from Aaron's serious eyes.

"All hell broke loose."  Riley answered heavily, rubbing his left temple wearily and eyeing the paperwork on his desk with no attempt to hide his annoyance.  "Wesley was supposed to bring Cara onto base this morning.  Containment cell, conditioning team.  It was all set up and ready to go.  We could have saved her."

Sam frowned, "I don't understand."

"This doesn't leave the office, Sam." He began to pace across the office, face drawn in concentration.  "He knew that there was no hope for her.  Not as damaged as she was.  The Council's official command was to take out her ovaries and have her put down."

"My God."

Riley raked one hand through his hair, staring into space as though it held the answers.  "Wesley and I went over the possibilities and there was only one that we thought had a chance.  Cara Sewell can't be saved."

"Please tell me there's a but at the end of that sentence." Sam took her son's hand, more for her own comfort than for his.

"Bring her in, strip her down.  Give the Council what they want and tell her she's been taken care of."  He paused in his pacing, sighing heavily before resuming his track across the carpet.  "Recondition her again, do what the Council did and wipe everything out.  All those memories she had downloaded into her brain.  All of it.  Down to the bare bones and go from there.  She'd have to relearn everything.  How to speak, how to read.  Cara Sewell would officially be dead."

"And what?  What would you do with her?"

"Wesley said he had a place he could take her where she'd be safe."  Riley shook his head hopelessly.  "She wouldn't be able to have children or even much of a life but it would be something.  It was just between us, he didn't even want to tell Giles what we were planning."

"And something went wrong." 

His shoulders slumped and his expression was verging on desolation when he turned around.  "She attacked Wesley this morning.  If he survives, he'll have permanent brain damage and kidney failure within a few months."

"Do the doctors think he'll pull through?" Sam tried to keep her voice calm and even.

He shook his head, the wordless answer bleak and hopeless.  "I should have taken Cara when I had the chance.  I thought it would be better.  That Buffy might be able to help her.  I should have taken her."

"It's not your fault."  Sam reached out, tugging at his arm and pulling him closer to her.  Wrapping one arm around his broad shoulders, she held him awkwardly against the bulk of her expanded stomach.  "You did the right thing."

"Did I?  Maybe.  Maybe not."  He looked away.

"What now?"

"I've got a team headed out to try and contain her.  They seemed to think that she wanted something from Lorne and that he would be safe for a while."  He shifted when Aaron climbed out of the chair and bent down to lift his son into his arms, holding him protectively.  "There's no telling what she'll do when we bring her in.  Maybe you and Aaron should stay in the safe area until this blows over."

"There's no need, is there?" Sam smiled sadly, recognizing the attempt to spare her from the truth and loving him for trying.  "You're a terrible liar, Finn."

Riley met her gaze with silent gratitude.  "Tell me I made the right decision."

"There is no right decision, Riley.  Not this time."  She leaned her head against his shoulder gently.  "What now?"

His soft voice was a sharp contrast to the words that left his lips.  "If she leaves a single mark on another one of my men, I'll kill her myself."  

***

There was nothing to say once silence returned to the limousine.  No idle conversation amongst the dead as they drove through Sunnydale.  The sun was shining brightly and bringing smiles to the faces weaving down the sidewalks in jackets and scarves.  A moment of warmth in the death of winter.  It felt hollow and lonely, knowing that each smile would be wiped away and swallowed in terror before the life inside was snuffed out.  Nothing left but dust and blood.  A sense of weariness crept into Lilah's black soul, of the eternal stretch of time that lay before her with nothing to keep her but work and more work.  

            "Here we are.  I wish you the best of luck." Holland motioned toward the door.

            "For the record, this is a mistake." Lilah snapped angrily as she stepped out of the vehicle.

            "It's not your decision to make, Lilah.  Remember that."

"How could I forget?" She slammed the door without caring about it being childish or disrespectful and scowled at the garbage around her feet.  A filthy alleyway behind an equally filthy abandoned building.  What better place to hunt a rat?  She waited for the limousine to disappear around the corner before she picked her way through the rubbish into the dilapidated building.  It was a nightmare.  This entire situation was a fucking nightmare.  The building was silent, holding its breath for whatever scene was destined to unfold within its tired walls.  Lilah made her way to the center of the room, trying to stay focused, trying to remember that it was just her job and her job was not to care.  

"Here, Slayer, Slayer, Slayer." She folded her arms across her chest and waited.

Nothing.

"I know you're here.  Let's get this over with."

"What do you want?" A flat voice responded from the shadows.

"You did the carving and the Senior Partners want to hire the butcher." Lilah spat bitterly.  "Deal is this, you sign the contract and we make sure you live.  Don't sign and you'll die here with the others.  Personally?  I hope you don't sign."

"Why?" Cara stepped from the darkness into the frayed edges of sunlight.  

"Because I want to be here to see you ripped apart."  Lilah held her ground as the Slayer continued to move, closing the distance between them.  "I want to make sure you're good and dead and never coming back."

"Because I killed him." 

"You don't deserve to breathe the same air that he did and you know it." 

            "He was going to let them kill me." Cara answered stiffly. 

"Best decision he's made since he kidnapped Angel's brat."

Cara turned away slightly, her eyes focused somewhere behind Lilah. "Do you remember the feel of his breath against your skin?"

"What are you talking about?" 

"You expected him to be gentle but he wasn't.  Not with you."  Brown eyes turned back to Lilah with a trace of mockery in them.  

Lilah forced a smile, "Nice try.  There's no way he'd touch you."

"He did.  Whispering your name and touching me."

Fury overrode any restraint that Lilah had managed to sustain.  Her fist struck Cara's jaw with a resonating crack in the echoing stillness.  "You'll never be more than just a shadow of me and you know it."     

"He used you."  Cara touched her lip tentatively as blood began to ooze down her chin.  "You were a good fuck.  His whore."

"You didn't know him." 

"Didn't I?" Bitter laughter was too loud in the silence.  "Do you remember how it felt to have him inside of you?  I do."

"Shut up." Lilah was shaking with rage.

Cara hooked one foot under a length of rusted pipe, lifting it off the floor easily and tossing it through the air to Lilah.  "Go ahead."

Suspiciously, Lilah gripped the narrow pipe like a baseball bat, holding it low and ready to use as a defensive weapon.  "What do you mean?"

"Take a swing." 

Without any more prodding, Lilah put all the force she could manage into a long arc aimed at the Slayer's head.  She wasn't surprised when Cara easily stepped out of the way.  It felt good just to try.  She readjusted her grip and changed her stance.  "All right.  You like pain.  I can respect that."

"Pain, pleasure.  All the same line.  Isn't that right?" Cara ducked again as the pipe whistled past her.

"You don't know anything about pain, Slayer."

"Funny.  Coming from you."

"I'm full of laughs today."  Lilah sidestepped to the left, waiting for another opening.  "Maybe I'll just go back and tell them you refused to sign.  Watch you bled dry by a hundred thousand vampires.  Do you think there'll be enough of you left to bury?  Here's a better question, do you think anyone will care when you're dead?"

Cara shrugged nonchalantly.

"Think they'll forgive you for the little tantrum you threw this morning?" Lilah switched tactics as she drove the pipe forward in a sharp thrust.  "Because you knew that he was touching you and wanting me.  That he was just pushing your buttons until he got what he wanted.  And you gave it to him.  Who's the whore now?"

Brown eyes blinked in response but she remained silent.

"So he was going to let them put you down like the animal you are.  Who can blame him?  And maybe I was just a good fuck but at least I was good.  You obviously weren't worth the effort."  Lilah managed to hide her surprise when she swung the pipe again, arms jarring as Cara caught the opposite end in an iron grip.  "Let me guess, he had some spiel about finding peace and no more suffering."

"Something like that." Cara answered softly.

"Maybe he was just tired of looking at you.  You really should do something about those scars."  The pipe jerked out of her grasp, taking bits of skin with it.  Lilah smiled smugly, "Hit a nerve, did I?  Uncomfortable with the truth?"

Nothing. 

"He probably wanted them to kill you just to get away from you."  The words kept flowing even as a tiny voice began to question the wisdom of pissing off a Slayer.  "Look at the facts.  You're what?  Nineteen.  A virgin.  And Wesley had to pretend you were me.  Why?  Because you're the kind of girl that men only fuck when they're too drunk to stand up.  Top it all off with your completely disagreeable personality and I'd say he was doing the world a favor."

Cara watched impassively as Lilah continued to rant.

"If I could sell my soul again, it would be to make sure that you had never been born.  I would deal with every demon, every devil, even God himself, if I could just erase you from this world forever."  Lilah stepped forward angrily.  "You aren't worth the blood in your veins.  You aren't worth the effort and the agony that Wesley wasted on you.  Worrying about you, caring about you.  Respecting you.  I had to watch him fight for you.  To save your worthless corpse.  And this is how you repay him?  I loved him, you stupid bitch.  I _loved_ him."

No answer.

"Say something!"  Lilah was shouting, frustrated and dangling precariously at the end of her rope.  "Give me one reason why I shouldn't let you die in this pathetic little town.  Explain to me why I had to come all the way back for a monster like you."

"It's your job."  Cara answered simply.

"Fuck the job.  I'd rather spend eternity in hell than see you take one more breath."  

"I did what I had to do."

"Had to?" Lilah scoffed.  "You had to kill him?  Right.  What did killing him get you?  The Sunnydale brigade is going to be lining up to put a bullet in that fucked up head of yours.  Brilliant plan."

"It worked well enough."  There was an unfamiliar glint in Cara's eyes.

"I can tell.  You're hanging out in an abandoned building."

"While the rest of the rats scurry into their burrow." Cara spun the pipe through her hands lazily, a slow smile curling across her lips.  "Safe, protected.  That was your game plan all along.  Trap them, bury them.  No more Slayers, no more Angel.  But you fucked up."

"What are you talking about?"  In a single frightening second, Lilah realized that she was looking at a completely different personality inside the familiar scarred and burned skin.  Gone was the silent and unreadable girl, replaced by the predatory grace and calculated violence of a Slayer.  

"I know what's coming." Cara stilled, staring down at her hands.  "I understand now."

"You really are completely insane." Lilah took a step back warily.

"Three Heralds of the end of an Age." The pipe blocked Lilah's path as she tried to move away from the Slayer.  "One as barren as the desert sand, one reborn in fire and ash, one with a soul drenched in blood.  Three Slayers.  Which one am I?"

"I'd say that last one is a dead ringer."

"You think you've won.  No more Slayers, no resistance when they come to swallow this planet whole."

"Sounds like winning to me."  Both nervous and irritated, Lilah glanced around for another escape route.  "It's all about the bottom line.  Wolfram and Hart stands to gain a great deal from this merger.  One world is a reasonable price."

In one step, Cara was close enough that Lilah could imagine the subtle caress of heat from her skin.  Blood stained fingers slipped over her shoulder, leaving rust colored streaks over pale blue fabric.  "What perfume are you wearing?"  

"Thinking of trying it?  Maybe updating that tomboy image." She forced herself to remain still as Cara's left hand drifted up the back of her neck and tangled in her hair.  Her jaw tightened as the Slayer jerked her head back sharply.  

"You didn't answer the question." 

"You know what perfume I'm wearing, bitch." The leash on her temper slipped a little as Cara's grip on her neck tightened.  

"I want to hear you say it." The whisper was both menacing and seductive. 

"Jasmine."

"To remind him.  Taunt him.  You always did love those little mind games."

Lilah tried to laugh against the pressure on her throat, "And now you're trying one of your own."

"I learned from the best."

"I wrote the rules to this particular game.  Give up, Slayer." She winced instinctively as Cara twisted around and the pipe caught just below her ribs, hurling her against the wall with a sickening crack of shattering plaster and snapping bones.  

"I'm not done with you." Cara snarled as long legs closed the distance in an instant and bloody fingers reached down to wind roughly into Lilah's hair.

"You're going to waste your five seconds of sanity on idle threats and mind games?  I can think of better things to do with your time.  Why don't you go kill something?  Or someone."

"Six months."  The Slayer answered harshly.  "To think about you, to wonder if you even bleed.  If you would still be able to talk after I ripped your throat out."

"You've already ruined a thousand dollar suit." Lilah answered flatly.

"Six months with nothing but blood and death.  And you.  You were always there, whispering in my head." 

"I'm getting tired of this game.  Let's play another one.  How about the one where you get your fucking hands off of me?" Lilah futilely shoved against the bulk of the Slayer and received another brutal push for her effort.  When she opened her mouth to speak, the taunt was cut short by a fist.  Thrown back and to the side, Lilah clumsily broke her fall with one hand, grateful that she couldn't feel the pain of tendons stretching and tearing in her wrist.  

"I was going to leave you here.  Unbroken." Ribs cracked audibly as Cara's foot connected with Lilah's side.  There was barely a second to regain her composure before the Slayer grabbed her hair and yanked her forward onto her knees.  "Maybe I'll break you just a little."

Lilah froze, all of her anger swallowed up in the icy grip of sudden understanding.  Her ears ringing as the silence seemed to explode around her.  "Oh my God.  You knew.  You killed him to get to me."

A cruel smile spread across Cara's face and twisted the healing burns into a gargoyle mask.  "You're just the icing on the cake."

Lilah met the furious brown eyes evenly.  "You can't kill me, Slayer.  I'm already dead."

"I know."  Cara didn't seem concerned.

"And you'll be dead by this time tomorrow if you don't sign the contract."  She was stalling now, hoping that she could divert the Slayer's attention from whatever torture she had in mind.

"All Slayers die." 

"You want to be ripped apart by a gang of demons, that's fine with me."

The Slayer paused, brown eyes moving from Lilah and focusing on the distance beyond them.  "It's not about death.  It's about honor."

"What do you know about honor?"  Lilah scoffed.  

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall."  Cara pulled a knife from the side pocket of her cargo pants, the blade dark with the rust of dried blood.  "Humpty Dumpty had a great fall."

"Nursery rhymes.  I'm impressed."  Struggling to keep the sarcastic edge in her words, Lilah involuntarily tried to pull away from the weapon, horrified by the irony of being threatened with the same weapon that had cut into Wesley.

Cara knelt down beside Lilah and pressed the edge of the knife against her cheek.  "You can't even feel this.  You can't feel anything."

"And unless killing and torture really do get you hot, there's no point in any of this." 

The only response was the distinctively unpleasant sound of metal cutting through flesh as Cara began to carve into the side of Lilah's face, slowly angling up her cheekbone.  Her world went black and Lilah wished violently that she could actually pass out or throw up as the edge sliced through her eye sockets.  She had to forcefully remind herself that she couldn't feel pain.  Just the disgusting knowledge of having her eyeballs cut out of her head.  

"All the king's horses and all the king's men," Cara's voice was barely a whisper.  "Couldn't put Lilah back together again."

***

The training room smelled of sweat and heat.  Garrett's ears were still humming with the sound of fists hitting canvas and his own blood pumping through his body.  Beneath the stale odor of exercise and men, the hint of acrylic and plastic from the equipment was a welcome change from the musty earth of the rainforest.  To be back at Genesis was a blessing and a curse.  Surrounding himself with familiarity could fill the aching for home even as the restless ghosts drifting through the base ripped apart any peace he'd found while lost in the jungles of Brazil.  

A solid thud reminded him that there was someone else in the gym, pounding at one of the punching bags with determined fury and drenched in sweat.  Garrett didn't know the man.  He knew the stranger was part of the Boston group, recalled to Sunnydale with the rest as they began the process of hunkering down to wait out the storm brewing on the horizon.  That part of the plan still skittered away when Garrett tried to think about it.  They were going to retreat to the depths of the earth where the memory of murdered men hadn't even begun to fade and pull the Slayers into the safe embrace of Genesis.  The very monster who had killed those people was going to be within the same walls.  Protected.  

The urge to hit something returned full force.

Deep breaths.  One, two.  The base psychologist had patted him on the head and told him it was normal.  He just needed to let go.  Let go.  Garrett wanted to break the idiot's jaw even as he nodded and pretended to listen to the psychobabble.  Slayers were just another brand of demons, just another form of evil with a prettier face and sweeter smile.  Mister Forgive and Forget had not seen the blood or the bodies.  Had not just stood there like a fucking moron and let the bitch live.

"Garrett, right?" The stranger was panting slightly, sweat dripping down his face as he appraised Garrett.

"Who's asking?" Garrett met the hazel eyes suspiciously.

"Frye Birkman."  His smile was noticeably cold when it should have been pleasant.  "I believe that we have something in common."

"And that would be?" Not bothering to mask his skepticism, Garrett turned away and began to neatly re-wrap his hands for another round with the punching bag.  "I don't even know you."

"Let's just say that I wouldn't mind if one of the guests didn't walk away from our little party."  Frye flexed his wrists, his voice unconcerned and breezy.  "And I'm betting there's a certain young woman who you'd rather see six feet under." 

"So?"  His attention was focused now, mind beginning to spin with the possibilities.  "What if you're right?"

"Way I see it, there's really only one problem."  Frye leaned against the wall casually.  "One thing standing between you and seeing her gutted when the vamps arrive.  Orders."

"Finn wants to protect the Slayers." Garrett answered noncommittally.  

"At what cost?" Frye's eyes were icy when he looked up.  

The steel in the man's voice sent a chill down Garrett's spine.  He tried to focus on the tape wrapping his hands, tried to remember what he'd been doing before the Devil himself had asked for a conversation.  Intuitively, he knew that Frye was willing to do what he had been too afraid to consider.  That the man standing across the room would have succeeded where he had failed.  Hands were shaking as he continued to wind the tape binding his fingers.  This could be his chance to do what he should have done.  His window for peace of mind, for redemption.  He squared his shoulders and turned to face Birkman, "What did you have in mind?"

"Everyone has an Achilles' heel." 

"And Finn?"

"Has a family."  The cold smile returned.  "He may be determined to save the Slayers but he'll save his family first."

"I won't let you hurt Sam or Aaron." Garrett narrowed his eyes guardedly.

"No need to hurt them.  Just need the timing to be on our side."

"How do we do that?"

"Think of it this way.  The attack begins and the base seals tight as a drum.  No one comes in and no one gets out until daylight.  Sam's due any day now and she's gonna have it rough."  Frye headed back to the punching bag, adjusting his own taped hands carefully.  "I checked her file.  She nearly died giving birth to Aaron."

"If she goes into labor while the base is sealed," Garrett began to fill in some of the blanks.  "Dr. James should be able to take care of her."

"And if he can't?  If he's unavailable."  The bag swung away with the impact of a fist.  "Then it doesn't look too good for Sam Finn.  And Riley isn't about to sit and watch her die, is he?"

"How does that help us?"

"With Finn gone, it won't be too hard to convince whoever's left that your Slayer friend should be eliminated."

"If they even bring her in."  Garrett shrugged, uneasy with the idea of putting Sam Finn in harm's way.

"They will.  Probably lock her in a cell and throw away the key.  Finn will get his little Brady Bunch out of the base and off to safety."

"And the other Slayers?  They're not going to stand by and let us kill one of their own kind."

"That is the beautiful part."  Frye grinned as he turned around.  "I know Slayers.  Summers won't let Riley leave the base alone and Spike won't let Faith go along for the ride.  I checked the specs.  During isolation procedure, the base only has radio and video contact with the outside world.   Limited at that.  Finn's not stupid, he'll choose the fastest and safest route.  Get Sam to the helipad and out of Sunnydale.  They'll have to fight their way through God knows what army of demons; five hundred yards maybe."

"Risky.  Even with a Slayer or two." Garrett frowned thoughtfully.

"And it gives us plenty of time to slit one Slayer's throat.  I can keep Faith occupied and out of the way."

"What about Ms. Summers and Finn?"

"I'm sure they'll make it safely back to the base." Frye seemed unconcerned with what might happen to them.

Garrett thought the scenario through for a moment.  "Is it a safe bet that this Spike guy won't be making it back?"

"Not if I have anything to do with it."  Frye turned back to the punching bag with a bone crunching punch.

"Lot of ifs in your plan.  If the vampires attack, if Sam goes into labor, if Riley does what you think he'll do."  Shaking his head, Garrett swing his arms in wide circles to warm up the muscles again and took his position at the second bag.  "We don't even know when the monsters will get to Sunnydale, let alone when they'll attack."

Frye didn't turn around, continuing to pummel the bag mercilessly.  "Leave the vampires to me."


	47. Evolution

**Evolution –**

The glitter of the limousine's chrome trim traced out paths of diamonds in the afternoon sunshine, burning against the darkness surrounding the tracks and lending the vehicle an otherworldly presence. Cara blinked but the world didn't disappear, didn't change, and wasn't any less disgusting than it had been before. She hated this world. Hated the smell of earth and humanity and the warmth of the sun that never seemed to reach further than skin deep, leaving heart and soul trapped in icy indifference. Paper crinkled in her left hand, the dead weight of a human head hanging from her right and swinging lightly back and forth as she walked. As the distance between her and the limousine shrunk, the side door opened slowly and the distinguished figure of Holland Manners stepped from the dark interior.

"Miss Sewell, welcome to Wolfram and Hart." His eyes strayed to Lilah's head and she tightened her grip on the hair winding around her fingers. Holland raised an eyebrow, his smile cooling noticeably. "I would like to know why you're carrying Miss Morgan's head."

Cara bit back a laugh as she tossed the eyeless head to Holland, enjoying the grimace on his face as he caught the gruesome sight and couldn't decide what to do with it. "Always read the fine print, Holland."

"I would appreciate it if you would address me as sir, Miss Sewell." He gingerly placed the head on roof of the car.

"I'm not Lilah and I'm not your bitch." She tapped the edge of the folded contract against her thigh and scrutinized his every movement, the delicate wiping and dabbing as he removed the blood from his fingers with a silk handkerchief. "Tell me when it starts."

"Is that your only condition?" Holland smiled mirthlessly and motioned to the contract. "You are entitled to a reasonable set of initial demands."

"You have nothing I want." She tossed the contract onto the ground carelessly, vertebrae cracking as she stretched her neck. "Except the ETA of your pathetic army of undead losers."

He chuckled quietly and shook his head, "You spent far too much time with the Marines. We'll have to do something about that. You'll be far more valuable to us if you can learn to act like a lady."

"Go fuck yourself." Cara scoffed. As she turned away from the lawyer the contract fell from her hand and crunched underneath her heel, a fluttering paper flower left behind as a witness.

"You won't last the night without us." He called after her, glancing at the progress of the sun. "And dusk is only a few hours away."

Cara pivoted on her heel, sharp as a new recruit fresh out of training, and sent the twice-bloodied knife spiraling through the air with a smooth flick of her wrist. Not even breaking her stride, she spun again and kept walking even as the sound of metal cutting into dead flesh reached her ears. She left Holland Manners slumped against the limousine with the handle of the knife protruding grotesquely from his right eye socket.

Black boots carried her toward the heart of Sunnydale and the destiny she finally knew was hers.

* * *

The peaceful expression on Dawn's face was a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding around her. Spike could do little more than stand at the edges of the living room and stay out of the way, checked and ready to do whatever needed to be done. A phone call from Xander had sent the household scrambling to find their footing again, unsure if their every move and spoken word was being broadcast to the Senior Partners of Wolfram and Hart. Then came the bombshell that Wesley was down. Cordelia had ventured down into the depths of the house to tell Angel and was now alternating between acid-tongued fury toward Cara and just a breath short of tears. A third crisis was brewing on the worn sofa upstairs. Buffy's face was white, lips drawn into a thin line and arms locked defensively across her chest as she listened to Willow's explanation of what was happening.

"She's fine, really. Pulse is strong, breathing all normal and a-ok. She's just, just not here." Willow was frowning worriedly at the limp wrist in her hands.

"What happened?" Still disheveled from sleep, Faith rubbed her eyes tiredly.

"Simple hypnosis. She wanted to see if there were any memories from New Orleans. Where she was, what happened." Willow checked her watch again, continuing to count the beats of Dawn's heart. "She thought it might give us some answers about what Spike is."

Buffy took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before speaking. "All right. If she's not here, where do you think she is?"

"Another plane maybe. Something like astral projection." Willow seemed to relax as she focused on the possibilities. "It usually takes years to learn how and even then, only a handful are able to really make it work. But Dawn could be different. Maybe the Key part of her makes it really easy to move between planes, like some sort of dimensional passport."

"But she's not in danger?"

"I don't think so." Willow assured them quickly. "She could even be standing right here, just disconnected from our plane of reality. She could be anywhere."

Spike let some of the tension ease from his hands and shoulders. "Then we assume she'll come back in her own due time, is that it?"

"It takes a lot of energy to astral project. At some point, she'll get tired and her body will pull her back. We just have to wait." The cheerfulness in Willow's voice was betrayed by the nervousness in her hands.

"What do we do now?" Faith glanced around the room, biting at her thumbnail anxiously. "Sit tight?"

"In the Sunnydale Reality Show?" Buffy dismissed that idea with a quick shake of her head. "Riley's ready for us. We pack enough for a few days and wait it out. He can send a team to sweep the house, do a little pest control."

"Might be safer anyway." Spike avoided the question in Faith's eyes. "With all of Hell headed this way? No harm in tucking everyone under Finn's wing, which is the last bloody thing I ever thought would come out of my mouth." The mood lightened slightly and a rigid smile appeared on Buffy's face.

"Let's get moving then." She switched into command mode with a toss of her ponytail. "Will, can you touch base with Xander and Jane? Grab some clothes for yourself and Leia, unless she wants to leave town. Since she already knows about us, tell her what's coming and if she wants to get out, now's better than after the vamps arrive."

Avoiding looking at Buffy directly, Willow carefully laid Dawn's hand in the girl's lap. "I don't know how she found out, Buffy. She's never said anything."

"We'll get answers later. Right now, we worry about keeping everyone safe."

"What about Cara?" Cordelia interrupted coldly, her arms folded determinedly across her chest. "Who's going after her?"

"We've got other problems, Cordy. Riley sent a team out to find her." Buffy answered, trying to be delicate.

Faith spoke up hesitantly. "She's right, B. Cara's one of us and she's our problem. You really think she's just going to let them take her in without a fight?"

Spike was torn between his desire to get Faith out of harm's way and the guilty responsibility he felt about the wayward Slayer he had allowed to live. The silence was about to become uncomfortable when he offered his own solution. "Buffy and I will go after Cara. If we can get her contained, then we argue about what to do with her. Push comes to shove and it's her or one of us, then we bring her back in a body bag. Simple as that." He waited for protests but none came.

"Spike." Faith raised an eyebrow in warning.

"It's a good idea." Buffy gently cut her off. "I need someone here who can protect Dawn while the rest of us are circling the wagons. Giles is on his way and he can help get everything arranged. First priority is to get everyone together and safe. All right?" Murmured agreements and brisk nods answered her.

Spike shook his head when Faith turned to him, choosing instead to wrap her tightly in his arms and hold onto her as though she was his last remaining anchor to life itself. She let him know that she understood by hugging him tightly to her, eyes closed and forehead pressed firmly against his neck. Her energy warmed his stiff joints and aching muscles, both relaxing and invigorating. Silently, he promised her that he would return to her. Hell, high water, apocalypses without number. He would be lost without her now.

"Be careful." She was the first to pull away, determination and strength shining in her eyes. "She knows more about you than we do. If you have a weakness, she'll find it."

He nodded and kissed her, savoring the taste of her lips before he relinquished his hold on her and turned away. Each footstep was reluctant as he followed Buffy through the front door, his back burning with the knowledge that Faith would be watching him until he could no longer be seen. The air itself seemed to be charged with a new tension, keeping words sparse and brisk as they climbed into Buffy's car and backed out of the driveway. She was on her phone quickly, trying to get through to Riley and coordinate with his men. Preferring to watch the ever-changing town pass by him, Spike kept his thoughts to himself until she clicked the phone shut and maneuvered the car into the turning lane.

"They're headed over to Xander's. That's where she was last seen and she might have a hostage. A demon named Lorne, he's a friend of Angel's."

"Betting it's not exactly his day." Spike squinted against the brightness of the sun.

"The guys should have a perimeter set up by the time we get there." Buffy checked her mirrors quickly before making another turn. "I want to go in armed. She's had a lot of field time since you saw her last and she's unpredictable. We're not in the business of taking chances."

"Guess you never know." He caught sight of the dark van used by the Special Ops team as they turned down another street. "Letting her go seemed to be the right thing to do."

"She wasn't crazy then." Buffy threw him a small smile as she pulled up alongside the curb. "Life is all about second chances."

"And third chances?" Spike raised an eyebrow as he got out of the car.

"Not so much. More of a two strikes system."

"That's comforting." He followed Buffy down the sidewalk, taking in the details of the surroundings as she spoke quietly with the team leader. One soldier was standing further down the sidewalk and briskly explaining to an old lady walking her dog that the SWAT team was running a drill in the building. Mildly amused at the little white lie, he obediently strapped on a Kevlar vest and took the offered firearm, checking it over quickly.

"You have experience?" The team leader asked curiously.

"Boston PD." Spike answered, surprised that it didn't feel uncomfortable to refer to his human life.

"Good. We don't know if she's still in there or what condition the hostage is in. Stay on your toes."

Spike caught an affectionately indulgent eye roll from Buffy and followed the burly soldier dressed in military gear and body armor into the building. He could tell that she was proud of the men she had trained and worked with by the subtle communication between them, moving through the hallways without a false step or misunderstanding. He was on her turf now, just tagging along for the ride. Halfway down the hallway, he paused as the thought tugging at the back of his mind finally surfaced and silently motioned to Buffy. She nodded toward the shattered doorway just a few feet away to indicate that it was their final destination.

"She's not here." He whispered as softly as he could.

"How can you tell?"

"I can't feel her." He glanced around a bit nervously; unsure how the commandos around him would react to something even he didn't understand.

"Are you sure?"

Focusing on the sensation tickling at his skin, he nodded. He could feel Buffy. Her warmth and her strength radiating in a way that was similar and yet utterly different from Faith.

Buffy held up a hand and gestured something that Spike didn't understand. The commandos seemed to relax, lowering their weapons and standing a little straighter as they waited for the command. Still cautious, the team leader and Buffy made their way along the wall to the edge of the doorway and hesitated for a count of three before swinging into the room. A pace behind, Spike stepped carefully over the pieces of the broken door and glanced around the wreckage of the apartment. One battered lamp and a bar stool had been casualties of war along with a potted plant, several dishes, and a framed poster advertising a science fiction movie. Sitting calmly on the sofa across the room was a green skinned demon dressed in a baby blue Oxford and classic navy slacks. He raised one hand in greeting, ice tinkling inside the glass in his fingers.

Spike caught the scent of scotch and glanced at Buffy quickly, "He's a hostage?"

"Are you hurt?" Buffy approached him warily, still checking corners for any sign of the Cara.

"Can't say much for the old noggin but it's nothing a few more gallons of alcohol can't cure." Lorne answered bleakly.

"What happened, mate?" Spike checked his weapon, making sure the safety was on before lowering it to his side. The demon muttered something into his drink before draining the glass and staring forlornly at the remaining ice cubes.

"Where's Cara?" Buffy relaxed her stance, assured that there was no danger lurking in the apartment.

"She went that-a-way." Lorne waved vaguely toward the door. "I don't want to know and neither do you."

The team leader frowned sternly. "Can you give us anything useful? We have orders to bring her in dead or alive."

"Do I get a say in that? Cause I'm voting for dead."

"Did she tell you where she was going?" Almost gently, Buffy took a seat across from Lorne and focused solely on him. "Angel says you can read people. Like a book?"

"A very dark and violent book." Lorne shuddered. "Think Stephen King with a disturbing penchant for sharp objects."

"Then you know what's coming. Can you tell me anything about that?" Buffy leaned forward, concentrating on his words.

Lorne shifted in the chair and shook his head desolately, "Something's coming all right but not for a good long time. That's what doesn't make a teaspoon of sense. It's big, it's bad, and it's going to raze this world like a cosmic weed whacker."

"A demon?" Buffy frowned in concentration.

"A nightmare. I've heard the legends, the whispers at night around the campfires with a nice cup of Mock-Na. Stories told to frighten little demons and get them to eat their veggies." Lorne turned serious, his voice quiet as he continued. "With everything jumbled up in her head, it's amazing I could read anything off of her at all. I can tell you that she's after someone and she'll kill anyone or anything that gets in her way. There were bits and pieces that didn't fit, like a poem ripped apart and scattered."

"What did you mean, it's not coming for a long time?" Spike asked cautiously.

"Exactly that. This? This gargantuan rendezvous that's schedule to crash Sunnydale sometime in the near future? It's not even on Cara's radar. We're going to be long gone and feeding worms when what's on her dance card asks for a spin."

Buffy shifted nervously, "Could you be wrong?"

"Anything's possible." The demon shrugged absently, glancing around the room as though seeing the rest of the commandos for the first time. "The images don't exactly label themselves with little Post-Its. She's also nuttier than a fruitcake." His eyes stopped on Spike, brow furrowing in thought. "You. There was something about you."

"Hey." Spike took a step back. "I don't know any more about what's in Miss Homicide Queen's head than anyone else."

Lorne continued to stare at Spike thoughtfully until a squawk from one of the radios shattered the quiet. The team leader unclipped the receiver from his belt, speaking softly into the plastic grating and listening intently to the faint voice coming through the static. A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed with Lorne staring bleakly into his glass and the rest of the room waiting on pins and needles to hear the message relayed. When the handheld radio finally snapped back into its case, the team leader glanced toward Buffy with both determination and trepidation.

"We have a problem."

Buffy's expression turned grim as she stood up, "Has she killed anyone?"

The team leader holstered his gun reluctantly, looking a little green around the edges. "The B team found the remains of a limousine just outside of town. The vehicle is still on fire and they're reporting at least three bodies. One of the bodies was mutilated. It's pretty bad. Couple of the guys lost their breakfast."

Shaking her head with a deliberate touch of light-hearted amusement, Buffy holstered her weapon. "Giles had better appreciate what a well-behaved Slayer I've been." She caught Spike's cocked eyebrow and grinned. "Relatively speaking."

"Right." He tilted his head toward Lorne. "What about him?"

"I have a name, Blondie. It's Lorne." The demon set the glass down and reached for his suit coat. "And I'm ready to head down the rabbit hole if someone will just show me where it is."

"Once we have Cara, we're headed to Genesis. You can come with us now or wait for the rest of the gang. Riley's sending some cars to pick them up at my house and make sure Angel gets there in one piece." Buffy was already heading for the doorway.

"I'd rather stay close to the automatic weapons." Lorne hesitated, the suit coat stopping halfway over his shoulders. "Have you heard anything about Wesley?"

"He's in surgery. Cordy was headed over to Sunnydale Memorial when we left." Once again, the genuine kindness in Buffy's voice was a welcome surprise. "Wes is pretty tough for a Watcher. Don't give up on him."

* * *

Cordelia's footsteps were the only sound echoing through the corridor, heels snapping disrespectfully against the linoleum and making her wince with every crack in the silence. The hundred yards stretched for miles, the elevator doors closed in slow motion and hydraulics moved at snail's pace to lower her and the nurse with the weary eyes to the right floor. She braced herself again and again, still feeling her stomach fall every time something new leapt into her sight and reminded her of where she was. Of what she was doing.

"This way, ma'am." The nurse was a whisper of white cotton and Hush Puppies as she exited the safety of the elevator.

One more deep breath and her heels sounded their gunshots through the silence of yet another hallway. This one was flanked by two metal doors that swung open with a faint protest as the nurse pushed against the handles with pale, gloved hands. A plaque beside the door made an attempt at discretion and brisk formality. As though the plain gothic lettering could somehow make the line between white and black easier to see and the line between life and death easier to understand. Sunnydale Memorial Morgue. It was then, reading the words without seeing any letters, that the fragile buffer provided by shock and denial began to shatter into pieces and Cordelia nearly lost sight of the swinging doors in the haze of her tears.

"We need you to sign for release of the body." There was a clipboard and pen swimming in the distorted room.

Numb fingers trembled as they scrawled a nearly unrecognizable signature onto the slanting piece of paper. She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking, back straight and locked stiff with fear of collapse if she took more than shallow, painful breaths. They had covered his body with a fresh sheet, unstained by the blood that had been lost in their attempt to save him. It had all been explained to her amidst the too colorful walls of the artificially cheerful waiting room. Help had arrived too late and there was nothing they could have done to force back the darkness that had swallowed yet another hero. No one else had wanted to take on the paperwork, still lost in their own grief.

Jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof, Gunn had been the easiest member of the fragmented group to pick out of the deliberately casual crowd. He had paced a track into the carpet at the far end of the room with muscles coiled like a wild jungle cat caught in a trap. Gwen had been seated beside Fred, holding the physicist's hand comfortingly. It was a strange gesture for the usually guarded woman, who had never really reached out to any of them despite being part of the group for years. Then again, the ravaged look on Fred's face was enough to elicit compassion from a heart made of granite. Through eyes glittering with her tears and lower lip quivering with the struggle of swallowing down her pain, Fred had refused to wash away the blood on her hands even as she was reeling from the anvil the doctor had dropped into their world.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was dead.

Even as Cordelia tried to focus on the shape of him, the silhouette of white cotton draped over the cold metal of the gurney, even then it didn't feel real and she was tempted to disbelieve. To paint a fantasy where she would pull back the cloth and see someone else's face. Just another casualty in Sunnydale and someone else's tragedy. How many had fallen to the cause and how many more of her friends would lose blood and life before they had even begun to tip the scales? Why didn't the blood of a hero weigh heavier against the forces of evil?

"You have a few minutes before transportation arrives for the body." Weary eyes tried to be kind but only managed the hollow sympathy of someone who had seen too much death.

Cordelia nodded, still frozen in place and waiting for the nightmare to fade back into sleep. Strangely, the memories that flitted through the darkness were those she hadn't dusted off for too many years. Wesley in a crisply pressed suit and spectacles that gave him the appearance of a stuffed owl. His rather bow-legged walk from the motorcycle of his short-lived rogue demon hunter days. She could hear his laughter in the silence of the morgue and without raising her hand to lift away the sheet, she could see his face and the way his eyes would light up if he could smile at her once more. An instant where the heaviness of their lives would fall away from his shoulders and she was allowed just the barest glimpse into the piece of Wesley that refused to give up hope even in the face of impossible odds.

She didn't want to be here. Didn't want to be the one to stay with him in death until men in uniform arrived to take his body where it would be protected from whatever hell was preparing to descend on Sunnydale. _Leave no man behind. _ Itwas a mantra that Angel had taken to heart and he refused to leave anyone undefended even in death. Somehow, it was comforting to Cordelia that Wesley would not be amongst strangers even now that he had no reason to care one way or another. She didn't know if she could bear the waves of heartache washing over her as she stood beside him, if she could stay strong in the face of the gnawing ache for the piece of her heart that had been ripped out. It would be easy to slip the leash of self-control and fall into a pool of tears, spilling over the cold floor as she wept for love and loss. Tears would not bring him back.

Breath stuck in her throat and she wiped the traitorous drops away from her cheeks, "You've ruined my mascara. I'm going to look like a raccoon and it's all your fault." Her voice wavered pitifully in the stillness. Unable to pull back the edge of the sheet, she settled for caressing the soft drape of fabric as it tumbled around his face. "I'm not going to say I told you so even though I was right. Because I believed. I believed in you, that you would find a way. If anyone could have saved her, it was you."

Only the ticking of a clock on the wall answered her.

"Maybe I should've remembered how well your schemes usually go." The shivering laughter competed against the silence, ringing in her ears and keeping the true weight of reality at bay for a precious few more seconds. Behind her, she heard the telltale rush of air as the doors opened and closed. Pulling her hand back quickly, she wiped at her eyes and prayed that her mascara was truly waterproof or that she wouldn't look too horrific when she turned around.

"Hey guys." The words froze in her throat when she saw neither Riley's men nor any of her friends.

Lindsey McDonald tipped his head toward her in a mock salute and smiled. "Miss Chase, you're looking well." The image created by the expensive suit clashed with the farm boy pose, both hands tucked casually into the pockets of immaculately pressed slacks.

"What are you doing here?" She moved protectively in front of Wesley's body.

"I have a proposition for you."

"I'm not buying whatever you're selling."

Lindsey glanced down at his brushed leather shoes, shifting his footing just slightly. "From where I'm standing, it looks like there's something we could do for you."

Cordelia shook her head disdainfully, "You people never learn. There's always a catch and I know all about catches. Some guy offers you ascension and you end up coming back with a hypno-demon hijacking your body."

"You're right, there's a catch. We can't bring your friend back to life for free." He made a point of looking around the room, his eyes studying the cool metal and scrubbed tile floors. "What if I told you there's something you want as much as we do."

"I doubt that. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be left in peace."

"She's gunning for Angel." Lindsey's gaze landed on her suddenly, blue eyes serious and piercing through her. "Not even Wolfram and Hart can control her but at least we know what she's doing."

"How?" Cordelia's blood chilled.

"You're not dealing with just a Slayer, Miss Chase. You're dealing with Lilah Morgan inside a Slayer's body. And we know what Lilah wants."

"Lilah wanted Wesley dead? I don't think so."

"She wanted more than that." He rubbed his chin almost absently, beginning to wander through the tables of equipment. "The Senior Partners have been biding their time, keeping Angel busy and out of the way, but they don't want him dead. Apparently Lilah had other plans. Why do you think she waited until she could have a Slayer's body? The Senior Partners would have given her a new body at any time but she turned them down."

She watched him skeptically, "Why should I believe you?"

"This isn't about you any more. This is about Lilah trying to screw the Senior Partners. You were played. We all were." He shook his head and sighed. "Let me guess, she told you that she knew how to get Angel his Shanshu. That she'd put it in the Slayer's head. Did she tell you that?"

"Yes." Cordelia answered guardedly.

"All part of her plan. She knew you wouldn't kill the Slayer until you knew if she'd told you the truth. That you would ignore the fact that she was dangerous until it was too late. You'd try to get close to her. Wesley did and look what happened."

"No one's going to try again."

"You sure about that?" One eyebrow rose skeptically. "Do you think Angel will kill her? Or do you think he'll hesitate? All it takes is a second and he's dust. We don't want that any more than you do."

"So what's the deal? You bring Wesley back and we look the other way while you take care of Lilah two point oh?"

"We're also interested in what Mr. Wyndam-Pryce may have learned about Lilah's plans. If anything. And since he took that information with him to the grave, it's a bit harder to ask. Looks like a win-win for you."

Cordelia took a deep breath and prayed that Wesley would forgive her. "Where do I sign?"

* * *

Each footstep had a signature. Angel passed the time by listening to the nuances and trying to decipher what further chaos had broken loose upstairs by the intricate patterns of those walking above him. It kept the irritation at being kept in the all too literal dark just far enough away to prevent leaving the cot behind and venturing up the stairs. He shifted uncomfortably on the cot and winced despite the softness of the worn cotton fabric against his burned skin. It was almost enough just to be grateful for whatever mobility he had and relieved to feel the claws of death and dust retreating into memory. All gratitude and joie de vive aside, the lack of information from upstairs left him without a helpless to help or a Big Bad to slay. Since Cordelia had left for the hospital, not a single word had been passed down about Wesley's fate or if Angel had lost yet another warrior and friend.

Giles' heel strike was a heavier staccato than the hushed and subtle rhythm of Faith moving back and forth across the upstairs. He could hear Willow's quick steps along with the muffled sound of her voice. Words were lost to him even with supernatural hearing, which meant that they were trying not to be heard by sensitive vampire ears. That meant trouble.

There were several phone calls in rapid succession. The front door opened, closed, opened, and closed again. At some point, he heard a set of steps that he hadn't placed running from one room to the next and his patience nearly snapped. Odds of them throwing a party and forgetting his invitation were slim and even slimmer for the chance that they were merely going about a normal day of picking up the morning paper and going out for lunch. Someone would tell him what was going on, someone had to tell him. Unless, of course, they'd all forgotten that he was still a mess of healing burns sitting down in the darkest corner of the basement and rapidly getting bored with the brooding vampire motif.

Surely they hadn't forgotten.

He kept his peace for a distorted stretch of time that felt much longer than it should have, wordlessly urging the daylight going occupants of the household to find their way down into the basement and tell him what the hell was going on. Footsteps faded into silence and the silence dragged on interminably. In a way, it was worse than listening to the pounding feet of those who had either forgotten or had purposely kept him out of the loop. Now there was nothing to snag his attention and tug his mind away from the bumper crop of worst-case scenarios that had sprung up in the fertile stillness left behind.

Brushing self-consciously at the hem of the horribly colorful shirt he'd gotten as a loan from Xander, he chose to ignore the nagging pain that accompanied the use of his muscles to leave the cot and approach the bottom of the stairs. What had been a mere succession of wooden planks now loomed up as a daunting specter of Everest proportions. First step. He wasn't sure if it was the staircase or his stiff joints that creaked when his weight settled onto the wood.

Above him, the sound of the back door opening made him pause, tensing in the silence to listen for further evidence of someone returning to the house. The footsteps were unfamiliar as they crossed the kitchen floor and stopped just in front of the door to leading to the basement. Apprehension pricked at the back of his neck and he eased his weight back onto the concrete. There was something about those footsteps that made his skin crawl. If he could barely move, there was no way he would be able to defend himself on the staircase itself. The doorknob turned slowly and he pulled further into the shadows as light spilled down the top steps.

His suspicions were confirmed by a pair of heavy black boots descending the staircase at a leisurely pace and the faint scent of blood that drifted down into the darkness, rolling off of her skin in waves. And strangely enough, another familiar scent nagged at him from his memories. The perfume Lilah had worn. That answered the question of whether or not there was anything left of Cara inside burned and bloody skin. In the dim light filtering through the frosted windows, he could see that she was unarmed. Empty hands at her sides were her only weapons, covered with the rust stains of blood that wasn't hers.

"Why are you here?" His footstep was barely audible even to his ears. One step closer and still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the appearance of a stake or gun or some type of weapon that would give him the excuse to kill her.

Cara watched him carefully, her dark eyes shining and alert in the shadows. He stepped right and she took a step to the left, beginning the circling pattern of predator and prey. For the first time, he saw hesitation in her movements and none of the typical aggression that usually poured off of her in a deluge of anger.

"Might want to think about your answer." Angel closed the distance between them by another step, bringing the smell of blood and death that much closer. "I can smell Wesley's blood on your hands."

She remained as silent and enigmatic as ever.

"They're probably turning this town inside out. How long do think it'll take them to find you?" Another step. If he reached out his hand, he was close enough to touch her. The proximity didn't seem to be cause for alarm. "You know, Cara, it was good of you to stop by. I was getting hungry."

This time she laughed. Bitter, angry laughter. "You think I'm afraid of you?"

He had time to raise one hand in an attempt to block her punch before her fist hit him squarely in the chest and knocked him backwards into the wall. Pain danced through his muscles as he staggered back to his feet. "You're afraid of something. I can smell it on you."

"It's not you." She snarled. "You're pathetic."

Biting back a groan, he dodged the next swing and pulled away from the wall back into the open area of the basement where he could be ready for her. Reflexively vamping out, he didn't bother to shake it away or pretend that he was anything else. It was only a matter of time before someone returned to the house. Riley's men were probably tracking her and Buffy would be with them. He'd forgotten how far she could reach and how powerful her punches were, but he wouldn't forget again.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark." Air whooshed past as he ducked a high kick and spun out of the way. "Big bad Slayer. You like playing the Big Evil? Think it suits you?" He was taunting her now, his anger bubbling dangerously beneath the surface.

"You'd know all about that, Angelus."

"You're right, I do. And you know what?" He jumped to avoid being knocked to the ground. Despite his inhuman recovery speed, his body was beginning to feel the strain of moving before the healing process was done. "I'm not impressed with your angsty poor me routine."

"I'll try something else." Strong hands made contact and latched onto his arms, locking them in a struggle that sent them bouncing off furniture and walls. Boxes crashed to the floor and glass shattered as they fought each other for an advantage.

His muscles were screaming with the exertion of holding onto her, trying to slam her against something hard enough to break her grip on his arms. Spinning around, almost biting his tongue to keep from crying out, he managed to shove her against the center support beam and get one hand to her neck. Her hands moved immediately to his forearm, keeping him from squeezing and cutting off her air.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

She laughed again, blood tricking from a cut on her lower lip. "He didn't even struggle."

"What?"

"I cut into him and he didn't fight back. Just let me gut him like the spineless coward he was."

"Shut up!" Angel tightened his grip on her throat, jerking her forward and back sharply to crack her head against the support.

"Can't face the truth?" She managed to choke out.

"I will kill you."

"Then do it." Intense brown eyes locked with his. When he didn't answer she pushed ineffectively against his arm. "Come on, Angel. Put those fangs to good use."

"You looking to die, Slayer?" He ground out angrily, trying to figure out what game she was playing.

She sneered at him contemptuously, "Think I'd make a good vamp? I think I could learn to like it. Wesley's blood wasn't that bad, a little sweet. Maybe that's why he was so soft. My favorite part? The way it slips down your throat, thick like syrup."

Wood splintered when he ripped her away from the support beam and hurled her across the room. The contents of the bookshelf scattering as she slammed into the shelves. He was on top of her in a fraction of a heartbeat, guilt swept aside as he brutally shoved her against the crumbling bookshelf, wrenching her head to the side with enough force to make her wince and biting down hard at the junction between neck and shoulder. All he could hear was the sound of blood pounding in Cara's veins. It poured into his mouth and down his throat. Rich, hot, and tainted with something he hadn't tasted in far too long.

Fear.

He was shaking when he pulled away, almost wishing that he'd choked on her tainted blood rather than gulping it down like a drowning man taking in oxygen. Even as much as he wanted her out of his life, wanted her dead, he didn't want her blood on his hands. She wasn't worth it. He pressed one hand firmly against the wound on her neck. Her pulse was faint against his skin, eyes closed and body limp in his arms. He watched her face, half checking to make sure she was truly unconscious. Knowing Buffy, there would be plenty of rope to tie her up until the army could collect her. He was done with her.

The Council could clean up their own garbage.

* * *

It should have hurt. Or tingled. It could have had the dignity to hit her like a ton of bricks instead of worming little green strands through flesh and skin until she lit up the empty darkness with the glow of a hundred million dimensions. To Dawn, there were endless bracelets the color of radioactive waste dripping weightlessly from her arms, slithering down her legs and over every inch of her body. Fingers spun through the inky void of space and the jade tendrils danced behind them in glistening eddy currents of liquid smoke. In and out, they swum and tickled through her hair as though they belonged. Had always been there and held claim to her form long before the barrettes and earrings.

She wanted it to hurt. Wanted proof that they were something alien, that she had been attacked and swallowed up by a cosmic fungus or parasite eating its way through her body. They hummed, buzzing with the energy of unseen barriers and worlds beyond number. Her arms were their playgrounds, her hands were the ladders and her shoulders had been turned to the launch of a slippery slide. Locks of hair served as the ribbons of a Maypole, sweeping out around her as the tendrils wove through and tugged at the ends.

It should have felt strange but it only felt as though she'd finally grown to fill her own skin. No longer hiding inside a shell and waiting for the empty space between to be filled. She lowered her arms to her sides and tried to smile as the green whispers reactively curled around her, brushing softly and warmly against her skin. Trying to comfort her as they sensed her heart breaking.

"I did not expect you to return so soon." The familiar voice of Chronos was quiet in the endless silence.

Rather than search out his familiar form, Dawn stared at the space below her feet. At the glittering forever of stars and galaxies swirling away from her in every direction and leaving her standing alone at the apex of the universe. The magnitude was staggering, her senses stretching out to follow the winding green threads to their endless conclusions. And realizing that she could follow them, bend them and shape them, was far more overwhelming.

"So much power." Chronos commented softly from behind her.

"Am I dead?" Dawn finally looked up and met his gaze unwaveringly.

"You are aware." The answer was expectedly cryptic.

"I can't go back, can I?" Dawn didn't listen for an answer, spinning in slow circles as she tried to understand what had happened. "And I can't help them. That's part of the deal."

"We are bound." Chronos sighed wearily as he settled onto an invisible seat. "You can return to your world but you will not be the same and you will never belong there."

"Do I have a choice?" Dawn felt the warmth of a strand brush against her cheek, wiping away the tears that had begun to fall. "Tell me that I have a choice."

"What would you do if you had one?"

"She's my sister. She…I can't, I can't not do anything." Dawn tried to pull the green threads away from her skin. "I can hide them, move them. I can pull them into a world where they'll be safe. I can save them." Her frantic fingers stilled for a moment as she searched her mind for possibilities she knew were there. "I can even close the Hellmouth forever. I know I can. I can feel it."

"At what cost?" Chronos shook his head sadly. "You weren't ready for this to happen. Not yet."

"What happened? I don't even know what happened." Dawn waved angrily at the emptiness around them. "All I know is that I'm stuck in the literal middle of nowhere, covered in green twitchy stuff, while my sister is waiting for the Slayer hunt of the century. Why can't I save her?"

"Your sister's fate is not within your power. We all have our limitations."

"Send me back. Make me human or non-Keyish. I don't care. I don't want this if I can't save her."

"We cannot undo what has been made."

"It's not fair!" Dawn couldn't find anything to kick or stomp on and settled for pacing back and forth through space. All this power humming through her and around her and still her hands were tied. She would be helplessly watching her sister die. Again. Frustrated, she tried to concentrate on forming a plan. She had to think. There was always a loophole, she just had to find it.


	48. House of Cards

For those of you who have been so patient with me, thank you very much. I apologize for the long time it has taken me to update. Real life, fickle Muse. The hardest thing to do in this world is to live in it, right?

* * *

**House of Cards **

As she rehearsed the carefully worded explanation for why there was a Wesley rather than a Wesley's body, the Cordelia reflected in the polished metal door stared back at her with a dubious expression. Casting a determined glare atthe hazy twin, she turned away and returned to the chair she had rolled out of the morgue. No sense standing in the hallway while Wolfram and Hart's minions worked their mojo and raised the dead. The gang would be furious with her, would most likely put her in a corner with the words _idiot_ painted on her forehead. She was hoping they'd be too shocked by his return to second-guess her choice too much.Regardless of what happened, she knew any one of them would have bargained with the Armani clad devil if it meant getting their Watcher back. None of them were strong enough to walk away and leave Wesley lying there without life or breath. He hadn't deserved to die.

Putting off the commandos for another hour had been surprisingly easy, citing paperwork and the red tape delays that were the status quo of health care. They had their hands full trying to figure out what to do when the general populace of Sunnydale was besieged by demons and the pair of clean-cut Marines sent to collect the body had seemed relieved that they would have extra time to coordinate with the hospital administration to prepare them for what was coming. Seeing her sitting in the hallway, cheeks streaked with charcoal tears, had been enough persuasion for them to put her pickup at the bottom of their list. When they returned, sunset would be bearing down on them and they wouldn't have time to ask too many questions about why there wasn't a body. With the gang together again, she had no doubt they could figure out what kind of fast one the Senior Partners were trying to pull this time.

"Ms. Chase?" Lindseysmiled cordially, the morgue doors swinging shut behind him.

"Is he?"

"Just a little longer. The shamans are very optimistic."

"And he won't be a zombie, right? No wanting to eat our brains." Cordelia grimaced at the thought.

"One hundred percent zombie free. He might be disoriented for a while and sometimes they suffer from dizziness and nausea. The shamans will give him something to help with that. I can assure you that it's all perfectly safe, mostly herbs with a bit of mystical mumbo jumbo thrown in for good measure." He smiled again. "You made the right decision, Ms. Chase."

"And I'm sure you're getting more out of this than you're letting on."

He made no attempt to deny it or act surprised. "That doesn't seem to bother you."

"We know all your tricks, Lindsey." Cordelia's shrug was deliberately casual. "You're probably thinking that we're all going to die soon anyway, so why not pretend to play nice?"

"The possibility has occurred to us." He scuffed one polished shoe over the tile floor, hands tucked into his pockets.

Cordelia watched him for a moment, trying to decide if asking more questions would be worth the annoyance of having a conversation with him. The more information she could get, the better her odds that the gang wouldn't be too angry. "Why did you come back, Lindsey? I thought you were done with Wolfram and Hart."

"No one ever leaves Wolfram and Hart. Binding contract even after death." His eyes were focused on the floor, pretending to be interested in the patterns of the tiles.

"I'm sure you could find a way to get out of it. You were always good at that."

Lindsey glanced up with wry smile, "It's one of those cases where the cure is worse than the disease. For starters, no one lives through it. Only three people have ever broken their contract and Wolfram and Hart has been around for a very long time."

"Then it can be done." Cordelia smiled with a small amount of triumph. "Fred and I went over Lilah's contract a hundred times and never found anything."

"You have to know where to look." He answered dispassionately.

"So what was Lilah up to? Wanted more than a corner office with a view and decided to skip the corporate ladder?"

"That's one way of putting it." A quick glance at his watch seemed to reassure him and he leaned back against the wall, "Do you remember three blind kids a few years back? I helped you and Angel save them from Vanessa Brewer."

"And got a big fat promotion for it."

"Wolfram and Hart batted zero that inning, thanks to you and Angel, but they kept their eyes and ears open for anything about the kids. They're teenagers now and so far, haven't seen much. But they saw something that Lilah noticed, the end of an Age of Man. Not the end of the world, just a shift in power that'll put human beings on the bottom of the totem pole again. There have been dozens of these shifts in the history of the earth, hundreds even. What makes this one different is that it wasn't supposed to happen for another five hundred years." Lindsey crossed his arms thoughtfully, his eyes focused somewhere behind her. "There were signs, of course. Earthquakes, storms, the usual, but there was one that wasn't out of Revelations. Three Slayers. But it's not just the number, it's the Slayers themselves."

Cordelia frowned, "Lilah didn't mention knowing anything about three Slayers. She seemed just as surprised as the rest of us."

"Lilah knew more about this mess than she let on to you or the Senior Partners. That's where Wesley comes in. Anything he's learned could help us figure out what Lilah was planning. Has Cara been particularly interested in anyone? Known something that no one else could know? Behaved strangely?"

"She's not exactly the picture of mental health so strange is kinda the status quo." Cordelia bit her lip as she tried to sort through what he was telling her. A stray thought pricked at her uncomfortably but refused to make itself clear. "Why trap us in the basement?"

"That was for your protection. We had every reason to believe that Lilah's endgame was to kill all of you. As I told you before, we may not like Angel but we're not looking to see him turn into dust any time soon. As long as he stays out of our sandbox, we'll stay out of his, that was the deal he made with the Senior Partners after you woke up." Lindsey pushed away from the wall, taking a few short steps toward the doors of the morgue. "You don't have to believe any of this. But believe me when I tell you that our main concern is Lilah. She is dangerous, maybe even more dangerous than Angel."

"Nothing like a loose cannon who knows all your dirty secrets."

He paused for a moment, blue eyes unreadable as he watched her. "I won't lie to you.When we get Cara, it won't be pretty. We'll start by strapping her down and taking her mind apart piece by piece until we find what we need and if we have to rip the information out of her, we will. There might be torture involved; would you like an invitation?"

"Please, I wouldn't waste my time." Considering his blunt admission of what they had planned for Cara, Cordelia began to wonder if Lindsey was actually telling her the truth. Maybe this time it wasn't about Angel or any of them. Maybe it really was Wolfram and Hart trying to regain control of one of their own, doing damage control after discovering that their most valued employee had stabbed them in the back. How much of it had been part of Lilah's plan? All those years, all that time spent waiting and plotting her own revenge against everyone who had wronged her.

The silk of his suit whispered quietly as he shifted, "It's none of my business, but won't the high and mighty Angel take exception to handing over the Slayer?"

"Wesley is more important, let the pieces fall where they may." She answered. "There's enough to worry about without the chance of a Slayer stabbing us in the back. Trust me, there's no love lost here. You're probably saving him the hassle."

"Our Slayer hasn't made friends then. I'm not surprised, Lilah never was a team player." Arms crossed as he mused over a private memory, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Even when she was ahead, she was always looking for the edge.

"If you ever find out why she did it, Wes will probably want to know." Cordelia paused, "Not that I want you anywhere near him or anyone I've ever met ever again, you know how it is."

The enigmatic smile returned; accompanied by a subtle head tilt. "You enjoy wearing those Mama Bear shoes? Don't you think they're a little big for you? And a little useless. That gang of yours has proven to be fairly resilient."

"They're very good at trying to help people and getting stabbed in the back for their trouble." She bristled at the condescension in his words.

"Touche." Lindsey shrugged. "You could do with a little grouptherapy. The whole Shanshu miscommunication could have been avoided years ago if Angel had actually told you everything. There's no free lunch and he wasn't willing to pay the price."

Cordelia narrowed her eyes, anger beginning to flicker behind them. "I know all your tricks. Drop a few lies here and there to confuse us and turn us against each other; that's your favorite game, isn't it? But I'm not playing and unless you want to find out firsthand what my demon half does, I suggest you don't go there."

Her retort seemed to amuse him. "Do you even know exactly what that demon half does? Why the Powers That Be made you half demon? That's the problem with all yougood guys.You forget the details, the fine print. You never ask the right questions."

"Don't you have a resurrection to supervise?"

"You're probably right." He turned toward the double doors, stopping as he placed his hand against the metal to push them open. "I was just trying to help you figure it out, Cordy. Just trying to help."

"That's what Lilah always said." The nagging at the back of her mind began to take shape, becoming more and more unsettling as it crystallized. "Wait a minute. Why do you even need Cara? Why not just ask Lilah herself? You've got that binding contract and all. Why not just haul her back here and ask?"

"That's the problem." Lindsey's smile turned wooden. "She's number three."

* * *

Spike could see pity in Buffy's serious expression, watching her hands as they gently but firmly checked Cara's injuries. The gauze pad pressed against the wounds in her neck was crimson with blood, darkening and stiffening as the thick liquid dried. He marveled at the smooth efficiency as Buffy stripped away loose and worn bandages from burned skin and replaced them with fresh sheets of gauze, taping them firmly around Cara's limbs. Skulking in the corner of the military transport vehicle was Angel, silently and apprehensively watching the unconscious Slayer.

"Seems like a lot of work for someone they're just going to kill." Spike went for blunt, unable to think of tactful way to phrase the sentence. Buffy didn't answer, still focused on the task at hand and the only response from Angel was a tired shrug. "So that's it? Just going to let them stick her with a needle?"

"If you have a better option, I'd love to hear it." Buffy shook her head wearily. "I've searched my brain until I can't think any more or risk my head exploding. We can't save her, we can't fix her. Giles is right, this is the best option."

"But not the only option."

"Would you rather she spend the rest of her life in a padded cell?" Angel winced as he stretched his shoulders.

"I don't know." Spike leaned back against the cool metal of the Hummer with a sigh. "It's just that…I mean, look at her." There was silence. Three pairs of eyes tried to take in the blood, the burns, the bruises darkening and others fading. Tried to make the girl lying on the floor of the vehicle a little bit less of a monster, tried to find enough pity or compassion to overcome the fear and pain.

Spike knew that Angel's mind was set and had been since she'd attacked Wesley that morning. In the vampire's mind, Cara was already dead, just a corpse walking around until it could be safely put into the ground for the worms. The pragmatic ice in Buffy's voice meant that she would side with Giles and Riley, that she would cut her losses and sacrifice her own desire to save another Slayer for the protection of others. The greater good. Even he had to admit that letting Cara slip away into death and finally be freed of a life too dark to be believed would be the kindest course of action. But. There was always a but. Part of him looked down at burns and blood and saw someone who had clawed for every inch of her life, someone who deserved a chance to keep doing just that.

"Guess all that redemption bullshit only applies to vampires with souls." He pushed the button deliberately and raised an eyebrow defiantly at Buffy's annoyed look.

"It's not that simple, Spike."

"Isn't it? You fight, you earn a get out of Hell card, and ride off into the sunset. Isn't that how the story goes?"

"I don't know. How'd you get yours?" Angel scowled in the dim light. "Some good fairy waved a magic wand and gave you a heartbeat. You didn't earn it."

"Feelin' like you got the short end, mate? About bloody time if you ask me."

"No one's asking you, Spike."

"I'm sayin' it's not our choice. We can't damn her to Hell."

"Someone has to. Would you rather let her go on killing?" Angel taunted.

"Were you two always like this?" Buffy interrupted, trying hard not to smile. "You're like children. Or an old married couple. And that…well, other than the whole mental of you..."

"Don't go there." Angel cut her off quickly and ignored the teasingly speculative grin.

"Point is that she deserves a shot at redemption just like the rest of us. If she wants it. Has anyone thought to ask her?" Spike held up a hand to forestall any protestations. "I've killed a helluva lot more people than she has and so has Angel. You can't treat it like a scorecard and once there are so many marks, you're out of the running."

"We're out of time, Spike." Buffy answered softly. "There's nothing we can do for her."

"There's your problem. All of you, wondering what you can do to fix her. You bloody can't do it for her, she has to fight her own battles."

"But she doesn't even understand that."

"Doesn't she?" Spike motioned to Angel. "Sounds like she's got a pretty good grip on what's going on around here."

"She doesn't want to be saved, Spike."

"Right. And that's why you kicked her ass. Look at you, you can barely be annoying and there's no bloody way I'll believe you bested her in a fair fight." Deliberately mocking, he shook his head, "If she wanted to kill you, you'd be dead."

"She's hardly in mint condition herself. Maybe she wanted to die." Angel stared down at his hands as though his burned skin held the answers.

"That means she's hurting and that means she can be saved. A little nudge in the right direction and…"

"She's not Faith." Angel met his eyes for the first time, almost sympathetically.

"We have other problems, guys." Buffy reminded them gently. "We can put her on ice and tie her down until all this blows over if we have to but we're facing some tough decisions." The unspoken worry in her voice was easily recognizable as concern for her remaining family and friends.

Remembering Dawn and the others was sobering, weighing heavily on the passengers and preventing any further discussion. Spike kept his mouth closed, eyes staring at his hands without focusing or really seeing. Buffy kept busy by adjusting and perfecting the bandages taped over Cara's wounds, as though straightening the strips of cloth would straighten the world around them. Make the lines between good and evil burn bright and distinct, washing away the murky gray that continuously poured in around them like the sand of an hourglass.

Unintelligible squawking from radio headsets, wheels thumping over speed bumps and seams in the structures beneath them, and the faint awareness of being swallowed up into the belly of the earth meant they had reached their final destination. The world took an few seconds to come to rest after the vehicle stopped and the occupants of the Humvee braced themselves for the unknown turmoil outside the sheltering steel womb. Light and chaos came in a flood, a torrent of sound and brightness tearing through the back of the vehicle to drag them out into uncertain futures. Voices shouted familiar words that hung weightlessly and meaninglessly in the air, just moments of noise scattered and lost forever.

Buffy was the first one to recover, leaping smoothly from the back of the cargo bed, her voice raised in the melee to give orders and lending her own shoulder as they bumped and dragged the makeshift gurney into the military base. To Spike, it looked as though Cara had been wrapped in silk and was being carried away delivery style to a waiting spider deep within the earth. Angel crept to the edge of the light, blinking and shying away involuntarily to hide his disfigured skin. With as much reluctance as he could muster, Spike kept one hand hovering just behind the vampire's elbow as they climbed out the vehicle. There was no thank you, no acknowledgement, and once feet were firmly planted on the ground he shoved his hands deeply into his jeans pockets.

With the bustle and drone of a fully operational beehive, the Genesis base was an impressive tableau of light and metal. Everywhere he turned, the sheen and glisten of modern technology left him wondering if he'd been propelled centuries into the future. The fact that nearly every one of the residents was armed seemed surreally ordinary. Spike didn't have to be a vampire to sense the approaching sunset. He could see it in the faces of the scouting teams and plain clothes units returning to the base with truckloads of supplies. Food, medical gear, and more weapons. Darkness was coming despite the brilliance of the florescent lighting they were bathed in and even though eyes were blind to its descent, the parts of them that remembered ages lost in fire and struggle could still feel the creeping advance of night.

They didn't truly understand that this one would be different. That morning would bring a wave of uncertainty, if morning survived the night instead of dying in a battle still unpredicted. According to Buffy, halfway across the world, the Watcher's Council was a frantic buzz of information being relayed from every part of the globe. The demons were coming. Vampires, in particular, were flocking toward Sunnydale as they had the most to gain from elimination of their natural predators. In the background, the hospitals of neighboring towns were quietly gearing up to deal with the fallout of an event they had no information about. Just a command from the Department of Defense to be ready for anything and not to waste time asking questions. Strike teams were still trickling in, those who would not return to Sunnydale before nightfall would stay outside the perimeter and do what they did best

An older gentleman caught his eye, stiff backed and crisply military, the man seemed to soften around the edges as Buffy spoke to him. Quick hands moved lightly to check Cara's pulse with the ease of someone who had done it countless times. Blonde hair bobbed as Buffy nodded in response to a question from one of the retrieval team members and Spike was again struck by how perfectly she fit into the role of leader. How she had finally grown into the shoes she'd been forced to wear. Knowing just how far she'd come, it was hard not to feel a little pride at seeing the final product.

"She's done well." To the side, Angel echoed his unspoken thoughts.

"That's our girl." The bustling crowd seemed to weave and buckle, making way for Riley Finn as he made a line for Buffy and Cara. Spike let out an involuntary sigh, "This ought to be fun. Last time I saw Finn he…well…it wasn't over beers and a blooming onion."

"Yeah." Angel shrugged. "I kicked his ass. Think he's forgiven me?"

That was all they had time for idle chit chat before Riley turned his gaze toward them and closed the distance with a few long steps. "Angel. Spike. There's a med team waiting for you, Angel. They'll see what they can do about those burns." Angel managed to stammer an awkward thank you, standing motionless at Spike's side.

"Look, I'm not interested in rehashing the past. What's done is done and frankly, none of us got the girl, so there's really no issue here."

"Right." Spike nodded in agreement. The three men remained there for several moments, silent and awkward.

"I still don't like you." Angel finally broke the silence.

"And I hate both of you. Now get your vampire ass to the med unit so you can be useful some time in the near future." Riley nodded vaguely to the left. "And you, Captain Peroxide, you've got a wife who'll break every bone in my body if I don't send you her direction. Try the training complex. Level two. Might even recognize it."

"Thanks." Spike answer dryly.

"And try not to break anything."

Spike bit back a laugh as Riley disappeared back into the crowd, exchanging a knowing look with Angel before he set out to follow the tiled hallways in search of Faith. He was anxious to see that she had made it into the base safe and sound, hopefully with Summers junior and the rest of the gang in tow. After only one false door, he found the training complex and slipped in. Like the rest of the base, it was humming with activity as soldiers trained or organized equipment, spreading out long-term supplies in neatly aligned rows. Staying along the edges of the room and out of the way, he craned his neck to see through the chaos and find the familiar dark brown hair. Even expecting to see her, he was unprepared for what he found.

Faith was crouched next to a small boy who couldn't have been more than four years old, carefully and patiently instructing him in the propergrip to wield a wooden stake. Getting closer, he noticed a very pregnant woman sitting a few feet away, her face beaming with pride as she watched the boy studiously attack one of the practice dummies. Faith gave the boy a jubilant high five for staking the imaginary vampire and Spike smiled at the terror on her face when the child wrapped his arms around her neck in an awkward but sincere hug.

"She'll be a wonderful mother." The pregnant woman smiled up at him and held out her hand. "Sam Finn."

"Davis Williams. More commonly known as Spike."

"You fit the description." Her eyes sparkled warmly, one hand rubbing her stomach absently as she turned back to the scene before them. "The little one's mine. Aaron."

"The other one's mine. Slayer by trade." Spike grinned when he caught Faith's rather frantic look and shook his head when she mouthed the words _Help me_ over the boy's head.

"Riley wanted us to stay out of the way but I'm restless and Aaron was bouncing off the walls. He was so excited to meet another Slayer, you'd think it was Christmas. Buffy's his hero."

"Seems like a good kid."

"He's wonderful. Being a parent changes everything." She waved at her son when he turned around. "You're probably getting a taste of that already."

"Yeah." Spike pulled up a chair and settled in to watch. "World can be a pretty scary place when you've got little ones to protect." He was trying to be nonchalant about the barely contained worry that had doubled or tripled now that he was faced with being a father.

"It can be. But there's good in this world too and I wouldn't want Aaron to miss that for anything." Sam said thoughtfully. "And I know that if I do my job, he'll make the world a better place for the people he cares about."

"What about the baby?" Spike motioned to her obviously pregnant state. "Boy or girl?"

"I'm hoping for a girl." She was smiling proudly again.

The sound of giggling interrupted their conversation and Aaron squealed happily as he tried to get away from Faith, who was teasing him ominously about a Tickle Monster. Finally breaking free of his tormenter, he ran to his mother and threw himself at her legs, still grinning as he laid his head on her knees. Flushed and smiling, Faith winked at Spike before taking a seat on his lap.

"Hardly looks like preparations for battle, luv." He pressed a quick kiss to her lips.

Faith batted her eyelashes and gave him her best angelic expression, "It was touch and go for a while there. He's quick for such a little guy."

"And quite the escape artist." Sam added knowingly. "Besides, sometimes the best thing you can do around here is stay out of the way. Riley runs this base like clockwork. There will be plenty to do later." She stroked her son's hair lovingly.

"Reminds me, where's Dawn?" Spike glanced around to make sure he hadn't missed her.

"Stowed away in a bunk, Willow was planning to stay with her until Buffy's done making the rounds." Faith answered.

"And the rest of the gang?"

"The usual bureaucratic hold up at the hospital, don't know details, and last I heard Xander was running late; something about a cat."

"And you're sure there's nothing I can do? Fella could go crazy just sitting." He could see the same restlessness in Faith's eyes.

"Actually," Sam spoke up thoughtfully. "It couldn't hurt for you to see Dr. James, Faith, if you haven't started any prenatal care. And Riley may be prickly, but he can always use a hand with the lookouts. He knows that regular humans can only do so much."

"If I can be useful." Spike nodded.

"Don't let him tell you no." Sam smiled kindly. "I can show you the way to the med unit if you'd like, Faith."

"Can't hurt, right?" Letting go of Spike reluctantly, Faith stood up.

"I trust Dr. James with my life and my children's. Don't worry, you won't get any pampering from him and he won't tell you to take it easy."

"Thank god." Faith grinned with relief.

Spike walked with the trio as far as the hallway, squeezing Faith's hand one more time before she headed in the opposite direction with a small hand tucked into hers. He had to pause and watch her walk away, still awkward with the four year old but exhibiting an honesty and openness that he rarely saw in her. She had no idea how to handle the child but was hell-bent to do her best anyway. That was Faith.

It was a moment of respite from the chaos and it steeled his resolve to find a way to be useful. To do everything and anything in his power to make sure tomorrow came right on schedule and without losing anyone he cared for. Retracing his steps and asking a few questions along the way, he managed to find his way to the command center. Riley was standing by a large table, pouring over maps and diagrams of Sunnydale and the surrounding area.

"Wouldn't it be easier to initiate evacuation?" One of the younger marines queried.

"According to the teams coming in, the demons have set up a perimeter less than a hundred miles out and they're closing in using a rough net formation. If we evacuate now, we'll be sending them straight into the demons. Circling the wagons may be our only option at this point. The Mayor has agreed to the chemical or radiation leak idea and hopefully we'll get most of Sunnydale into the designated shelters. I've assigned a squad to each one of the shelters and, with the Council's help, the sanctuary spells should be in place by sundown."

"What should we tell the civilians?"

"Sunnydale PD has already been briefed and they're ready to adapt to whatever happens. Right now they're going to advise locked doors, lights off, and not inviting anyone in. If we can get the majority of the demons in one location, we've got enough firepower to make a dent and the National Guard is already on alert. The President is ready to authorize any force we need." He frowned for a moment before leaning away from the table. "I think we've done everything we can, let's make sure we stay on top of this thing." The tension in the room lessened slightly and the circle of uniforms began to disperse to pursue their individual roles in the night's power play.

"Spike!" Riley called out without looking up from the maps. "We're weakest on the south east. There's a lookout post there and my guys are good but they've never seen a real fight."

"On my way." Spike tried not to grin.

"One more thing." Riley finally turned toward him, dark eyes serious. "Step into my office for a second."

"Right." Spike tried not to feel like a schoolboy about to be reprimanded as he retreated into the office and Riley closed the door behind them.

"We have a problem."

"Other than the demon hordes lookin' to tear out our insides?"

"Such a way with words, that hasn't changed." Riley shook his head tiredly. "I'm looking at an inhuman war without any Slayers to fight it."

"I doubt Faith would appreciate being side-lined already."

"The baby is more important." With only a second of hesitation, Riley opened one of his desk's drawers and dug through the contents. He produced a small silver disk and held it out. "This may look familiar. A friend of yours sent this via the Coven,just in case."

"Just in case?"

"In case things go south here and you have to get Faith out in a hurry."

Spike frowned, "You should be giving this to Buffy."

"I know, that's my problem. If it starts to look bad here, I need you to get both her and Faith out of here. The Council is prepared for that contingency and this will take you to the safest place on the globe. Which I don't need to tell you, still isn't that safe."

"This is hardly going to go well with Chief Buffy."

"And she'll kill me for telling you this but according to our resident medical guru, there's a fifty-fifty chance that the in vitro worked and she's pregnant."

Spike stared at Riley, waiting for the punch line or the telltale smirk of a well-sprung practical joke, "What?"

"Even at half the odds, she's gone through too much hell to take a chance at losing a baby. I don't care if you have to tie her up. If things go bad here, you get her and Faith out."

The silver disk was surprisingly heavy in his palm when he took it from Riley's outstretched hand. "Why me?"

"Because you're the only one who has a clue how to deal with a pregnant Slayer." Finally a hint of humor twinkled in Riley's eyes. "And Angel tends to combust at very inconvenient times."

Images of a tiny hand clasped in Faith's fingers flashed across Spike's mind and he sobered quickly, "What about your family?"

For the first time since Spike had arrived at Genesis, Riley grinned, "Sam thinks she's staying here. Best to let her keep thinking that for a few more hours."

* * *

Vibrant green skin stood out against the darker greens and browns of the camouflage uniforms, red horns adding the final touch to a broad announcement that Lorne wasn't like the young marines around him. Although the dark blue leisure suit hardly blended into the speckled couture of a military base either and his resonant voice managed to be clear even with the hustle and bustle around him.

"Angel cakes! You're looking slightly this side of well done." Lorne maneuvered his way through the crowd with a few smiles and pardon me's, motioning for Angel to head to one side of the room.

"Lorne. I'm supposed to be in the med unit. I think I made a left when I should have turned right. Or something." Angel frowned at the hastily sketched map in his hands.

"And straight on 'til morning, my directionally challenged friend. You missed it by about two floors but never fear, I've got to get out of this racket before my brain crawls out my ears and makes for the border." Lorne directed him back through the door into the one of the seemingly identical hallways. With an audible sigh, he shuddered and gave the closed door a look of disgust. "You'd think they'd have a little sympathy for the demon with the migraine. That's the next generation? Is that doom I smell or just barbequed vampire?"

"You know where we're going, right?" Angel folded the map and tucked it into the breast pocket of his borrowed shirt. Next item of business was to find clothing without any palm trees or pink flamingos.

"Field doc checked me out when I came in, not that he knew what to look for but a real peach about it. I guess they don't get a lot of Pyleans around here." Lorne's smile faded but didn't disappear completely. "Have you heard anything about Wesley?"

"It's on my list of questions to ask. Right now I'm just following orders." Angel tried not to cringe when one of the medical staff took one look at him and dropped a box of supplies. "Not that I don't enjoy looking like a walking stick of jerky."

"You have seen better days but soon you'll be in the very best of hands. At least they caught our little wayward Slayer. So I hear. Please tell me it's true and that they have her somewhere chained down and drugged to her bloody little gills."

"We brought her in." Angel answered simply, stiffening and pulling away as a set of wide double doors swung open and the hallway was suddenly filled with lab coats and scrubs.

"Are you Angel?" One of the young men asked briskly, reaching for Angel's wrist.

"Yeah. Hey! Watch the…Ow!" Angel pulled away as the technician snipped off a piece of burned skin. "What do you think you're doing?"

The older gentleman from before waved them through the doors and into a spacious laboratory. "I apologize for the poor beside manner, Mr. Angel. I'm afraid it's a little chaotic around here and not likely to change. I'm Dr. James, resident physician in charge and general tyrant of all things medical here at Genesis. The buck stops here, if you may."

Angel rubbed his wrist gingerly, "A little warning would have been appreciated."

"We needed a sample to know how badly your tissue has been damaged so we can tailor the cocktail to suit your needs." Dr. James was the image of efficiency as he managed to bark orders to the entire lab staff, shepherding Angel and Lorne into a semi-private corner. "Take a seat so one of my assistants can attach the IV tubes."

"What exactly are you going to be doing?" Angel sat down uneasily and watched carefully as a nurse began swabbing the inside of his elbow.

"They're combat cocktails. They come in about as many flavors as alcoholic beverages but pack much more of a punch. We have mixtures designed for every condition. Malnourishment, dehydration, shock, poison. We can keep a heart beating long enough to repair damage that would have been fatal. Most are meant to be taken into the field and used in emergencies only. You're at the top of the Commander's list and that makes you an emergency."

"This will make me heal faster?" Angel winced as the first IV port slipped beneath his skin. The nurse started prepping his other arm. "How many of these things am I going to get?"

"Just three. One line will act as a blood recycler, pumping in enriched blood and exchanging the depleted blood." Dr. James glanced up from his clipboard. "In all honesty, we've never tried this on a vampire before so it's purely theoretical. It won't kill you but it might not do much either."

"Good to know." Trying to get comfortable in the chair without knocking over IV stands or tangling the tubes proved to be a challenge and he finally settled for keeping his elbows held at odd angles away from his body. "How long will it take?"

"We'll start with a halfhour and then run another sample. We'll tailor the mixture to suit your individual needs."

"Don't suppose you have anything with painkillers, Doc?" Lorne injected wryly. "Particularly for psychic reading induced migraines. You know, the kind where I get all these lovely images of hellfire and brimstone on a repeating loop through my brain. I'd rather listen to Angel sing _Stairway to Heaven_ for eternity."

"Once your blood work is done, we might have something for you. Our pain cocktails aren't designed for your body chemistryand I like to know what I'm dealing with before I mix my drugs." The doctor gave them one more glance. "If you have no further questions, I have to see to Miss Summers."

"Is she alright? She wasn't injured when we came in." Angel blinked, his head was starting to get fuzzy.

"Just a checkup. It's protocol."

Once Dr. James had disappeared, the two might as well have been flies on the wall of the busy laboratory. Not a glance or a word were sent in their direction, each of the technicians busily working on what needed to be done before the base sealed its doors. Angel sunk back into his chair, his muscles relaxing even as he struggled to hold his head up.

"I think they put more than vitamins in this stuff." Angel closed his eyes.

"Most likely. It'll be good for you, my crispy friend. A little rest and relaxation amidst the chaos. Grab on with both hands and enjoy the siesta before the baddies get here." Lorne procured a desk chair and rolled himself into the corner beside Angel.

"Lorne?" His own voice sounded far away. "You said…something…about a headache."

"They most definitely put the fun juice in your bag."

"Buffy said you were with Cara. I think. It's a little…hazy."

For several long seconds, Lorne remained silent, his eyes looking somewhere far beyond the laboratory walls. Leaning closer to Angel, he lowered his voice to a near whisper. "A few sour notes but not the worst version of _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_ I've ever heard."

"What did you see?"

Horns shifted as his brow furrowed with pained concentration. "Not a lot that makes sense. As if time skipped. Like a CD player in a car going over a speed bump. One second you're at the beginning of the song and the next, it's the ending chord. Nothing in between, like it never happened. She's here and then she's somewhere else. Some _time_ else."

"You're not making any sense."

"It's not me who's cracked down the center." Lorne stared down at the floor. "Let me ask you a question, Champion O' Mine. What makes Slayers tick? What keeps them fighting day after day after endless day?"

"They're chosen." Angel answered weakly.

"Do you know why you fight? Why you keep trying?"

"To make a difference." He turned his head to look at Lorne with half open eyes.

"Is it worth it? Making someone else's life a little better. Saving an innocent person from their own stupidity or keeping this sorry world one step away from annihilation."

"Worth fighting for."

Lorne seemed to think about that carefully, as though turning it over and over as he tried to make the pieces fit together. "That's where she's different. You fight, Buffy fights, we all fight for things that make this world easier to bear. Goodness, innocence, and puppies. We fight for the bliss of the ignorant and the peace of the blind."

"For love. And friendship." Angel grinned, his head lolling to the side heavily in his drug induced relaxation.

"The good doctor must've given you the real deal." Lorne patted his shoulder indulgently.

"You didn't finish." Angel tried to nod but gave up when his neck refused to cooperate.

"It's subtle. A little twist here, a turn there. Like looking into a mirror and seeing the reflection of a Slayer." Lorne chuckled quietly at some private joke. "Through the glass darkly, into a _Wonderland_ that Lewis Carroll never cooked up with any manmade hallucinogens. That's the rabbit hole our girl fell though. She's not looking for something worth fighting for. She's looking for something worth dying for."

"She was afraid." Angel managed to slur, his head spinning faster and faster. "Could taste it in her blood. Fear."

Red eyes focused on him with sudden intensity, "Run that by me again. You bit her?"

"Big bad Slayer…afraid of the dark." The room began to fade away and Lorne's voice fell into bits and pieces buried under the background noise.

* * *

It was only after she stopped trying that Dawn discovered the secret to slipping back into her human shell. There was a great deal of cringing, one-foot in-ing, and shaking all about. She was grateful no one else in the cosmos could see her haphazard attempts to reverse engineer a process she hadn't been conscious of in the first place. A few dozen heel clicks later and fervently hoping for no place like home, she finally decided to give up and pull up a seat of nothingness. The seat then decided to vanish and send her tumbling down through the stars.

The whoosh of the earth's atmosphere in her ears was the first thing she noticed, then her human heart pumping blood through her arteries with the thunder of stampeding elephants, and the hum of artificial lights in the background. Her eyes snapped open and she sat up with a start, banging her head into the blur of red hair hovering over her.

"Ow!" Willow reached for her forehead. "Dawnie! You're back! You are back, right? This isn't some weird sort of astral spasm?"

"Willow!" Dawn threw her arms around Willow's shoulders and hugged her tightly. "Where are we? Is Buffy here?"

"She'll be here as soon as she can." Willow sat down on the narrow bed, smiling happily. "So? What happened? Did you figure anything out?"

Dawn looked away; unsure of what she could tell anyone about where she had been and what had happened. "Not about Spike. I kinda forgot to ask about him, sorry."

"No problem. We're past the researching point and into the gearing up for battle phase. But you did find something?" Willow's quizzical gaze was unnerving.

"So…are we on lock down or can I wander about?" Dawn untangled herself from Willow's arms and stood up to stretch her back.

Willow tipped her head to one side. "You're different."

"That's silly. I'm still the same old Dawnie." Laughing nervously, she reached for the door and peered out into the hallway.

"Of course you are. Just glad to have to back." Willow smiled brightly as she stood up. "Tell you what, I'm going to go find Giles and do the brainy planning thing. I think Buffy had a date with Dr. James."

"Eww. He's way too old for her." Dawn jumped at the subject change.

"Thank you so much for giving me that happy mental image." Rolling her eyes, Willow headed down the hallway. "Make sure you check in with Buffy, she'll be anxious to know you're okay."

"Aye, aye Captain." With a mock salute, Dawn started in the opposite direction toward the medical wing, dodging uniformed guards along the way. Most of them knew her and managed a hello or a nod even as they hurried on their way. First things first, she had to find Buffy and make sure there was no more Big Sister worrying and then she had to figure out how she was going to get everyone in Sunnydale out of the pending apocalypse. "No biggie, right? I mean, we're the Scoobies, we avert apocalypses for fun and pleasure." Muttering under her breath so no one could hear the nonsensical ramblings of little Dawn Summers who wasn't, she darted in and out of Buffy's usual haunts, making her way in toward the command center.

"Find sister, find sister." She repeated the mantra over and over to keep her mind on track. It was harder than she thought to ignore the tug of the no longer dormant Key. Like a playful kitten, every bend and every fluctuation in the reality around her pricked at her mind and skin, demanding her attention. Finally she dodged her way through the crowd into the main loading dock and her eyes found the particular blonde ponytail she was looking for.

Buffy's back was toward Dawn, her arms folded tightly and shoulders visibly tense even from several feet away. The ponytail bounced violently as she gestured to someone. Sidling through themen working,Dawn strained her neck to get a better look and recognized the long brown hair and impatient expression of Cordelia Chase. The image seemed to blur for a moment and the familiar ping of a dimensional twist made her shiver. Blinking repeatedly, she pushed forward to get to Buffy. Beside Cordelia, a man wrapped in a blanket turned toward her, sharp blue eyes staring out of a pale face.

"Wesley?"

"Dawn!" The relief in Buffy's voice was palpable but she quickly reined it in and took a step toward Dawn.

Recognizing the classic maneuver as Buffy trying to keep Dawn a safe distance away from something she perceived as a threat, Dawn didn't come any closer and managed a slightly confused smile. "Hey guys."

"Group meeting in Riley's office in ten minutes, do you know where Willow is?"

"Looking for Giles."

"Good. I want you to head to the library, or whatever they call it, and get both of them."

"Sure thing." Dawn was a little disappointed that she hadn't received more of greeting. It wasn't like she had left her body and gotten stuck in the middle of the cosmos without knowing how to get back. That warranted a hug at the very least. When it was obvious that Buffy's attention was on those coming into the base and she wasn't going to be Sister Buffy until General Buffy was happy, Dawn began to retreat.

The invisible knot in space-time pricked at her again and she fought down the impulse to reach out and fix it. So there was a knot, so what? Nothing crazy was happening and she hadn't learned all the rules. Actually, she hadn't learned any of the rules. Better leave thingsalone unless there were chickens with alligator heads running around or vortexes opening up to swallow them all. She took one last look at Buffy and the others, thinking that Wesley looked like hell and Cordelia looked a little frayed around the edges.Taking a closer look at Cordelia, she realized that the description was literal rather than figurative. The edges of Cordelia's body were blurred and shifting as though she was a hologram projected onto the world. As if she didn't actually belong there. Dawn kept her mouth shut and hurried away from the trio as quickly as she could. _Find Willow, find Giles, meeting in Riley's office. Find Willow._

"Damn monks." She muttered to no one. "They could have left a manual."

* * *

A string of lamps illuminating the equipment tables were the only source of light in the shadowed surgery bay. It was an auxiliary room, intended for use only when the main rooms were filled to capacity and they needed more tables than they had doctors. Quiet and out of the way, it was the ideal place to leave an unconscious rogue Slayer until Dr. James could get his team ready to operate. Doors were locked, surveillance cameras on, and a guard stood watch outside the door.

In the silence of the hallway, the young Marine tried to keep focused on the task at hand, guarding a locked door to a room that contained one sleeping girl. He'd heard from one of the lab technicians that the Council's drug was strong enough to kill a normal human being and would knock a Slayer out for a solid eight hours. Not that he had any intention of waiting for it to wear off.

Shifting in the chair and stretching his bad knee, Garrett glanced uneasily at the door to the surgery bay and took another deep breath. Wait for the signal. His hands itched to wrap around her neck and choke the life out of her while she slept. Maybe put his gun to her head and redecorate the room with her blood this time. Just as long as she was dead. That was what kept him sitting on the chair, waiting for the signal that all attention would be turned elsewhere just long enough for him to slip in and do what no one else was willing to do.

The drop of sweat trickling down his temple surprised him. He hadn't expected the plan to be a walk in the park but neither had he anticipated the thrill of adrenaline at the prospect of ridding the world of the Slayer. Leaning back against the cool wall, he relaxed deeper into the chair. He'd waited this long and a few more hours weren't going to be a problem.

In the room behind him, the silence was broken only by the hum of the table lights and whispers from computers tucked away beneath counter tops. A single electronic beep sounded quietly and rhythmically, charting a pattern on the screen that followed its charge's heartbeat. Steady, even peaks traced out again and again without variation. Following the thin wires from the monitor to the still form lying on the operating table, the woman's wounds had been thoroughly cleaned and bandaged by careful hands; the strip of gauze on her neck was just one more piece that blended unnoticed into a sea of white cotton. As a precaution, heavy leather restraints had been fastened over her chest and thighs. Ankles and wrists were also anchored to the heavy steel beneath her.

A casual observer might have missed the change in frequency or might have attributed the slight increase in heart rate to their imagination or a glitch. If they had noticed, they might have checked on the sleeping woman to make sure she was still safely unconscious. With everyone's attention focused elsewhere, there was no one there to notice as the beeps fluctuated. No one was worried about one girl who was supposed to be safely asleep and there was no witness when her eyes opened. She blinked several times, glancing around the empty room and down at the restraints keeping her on thesurgical table.

Only the flickering monitor saw the mirthless smile spread slowly across her lips.


	49. Payment In Full

**Payment In Full**

Buffy checked the clock on the wall, compared that to the time on her watch, and half-heartedly glared back at the clock. "Does no one listen to me anymore? Where is everyone?" There was no answer from Riley, who was still buried in blueprints and schematics of Sunnydale as he and his officers tried to predict and plan for every possible scenario. The chair creaked as she swiveled around, blew an errant strand of hair out of her eyes and continued to starw blankly around the room. So much for her well planned motivational pep talk. Well, sort of planned verbal kick in the pants for those who might need the kicking.

Riley finally looked up from his piles of blueprints and maps. "They'll show."

"I had a speech," Buffy said with mock gloominess.

"And I'm sure it was a winner." He hesitated for a moment before the guilty look in his eyes changed to resignation. "It's partially my fault. I have Angel in the med unit and sent Spike to a look out post…on the other side of the base."

She gave him an indulgent scowl and continued twirling in her chair. "How much longer before we have company of the nasty, pointed teeth variety?"

"Sunset is in less than an hour and it won't be long after that."

"I hope this is the last apocalypse until my fifteen year high school reunion, if there's anyone still alive to have one."

"Well, maybe they'll destroy the high school again." Riley tapped one of the maps with a frown. "We have covert surveillance there, figuring that the Hellmouth would act as a gathering place for all the creepy crawlies. Might get a better idea of what we're facing."

"Vampires, demons. One's pretty much like the next. Fight, kill, destroy the world…blah, blah, blah."

"Buff?"

With a heavy sigh, she swiveled around to face him. "What do you think they're going to do when they can't find any Slayers to kill? Make a campfire and sing Kumbyah?"

"Well…"

"They're going to tear this town apart, Riley. Maybe they'll wait a day or two but eventually they'll get hungry and start looking for someone to eat." She looked away, preferring to stare at the ceiling. "And then they'll kill everyone they can find until they dig us up. The longer we stay down here, the more innocent people die up there."

"We've taken as many precautions as we can to ensure the safety of the people in Sunnydale but you have to accept that lives are going to be lost."

"Are we really worth it?" She shook her head slightly.

"Don't talk like that, Buffy." Riley left the command table and sat down on the corner of the desk beside her. "You can't compare one to one. You, and Faith, have done so much for the rest of world. The human race needs you to survive and maybe it's not pretty or fair but it's the truth."

"Me and Faith." Buffy repeated softly. "But not me, Faith, and Cara. So that's only two of us against all those lives. Makes it worse. We're liabilities, Riley. How many more Slayers will go psycho?"

"You can't feel guilty for what she's done."

"Why not? I was the one who told her to figure it out for herself. I let her go." She shook her head quickly to cut off his protestation. "There's nothing I can do now. I can't save her and I can't fix her. And I can't bear knowing that she lives in hell every day because of me. Because I didn't realize that she couldn't do it on her own. I should have kept her here…I should have helped her."

"I know you wanted to. This isn't your fault."

"I just keep thinking that maybe, somewhere in there, she's not gone. Just lost and hurting and lashing out because she can't deal with how she feels. That maybe if we can just find a way to get through to her."

"Buffy." Riley laid his hand on her shoulder gently. "We're not talking about Cara anymore."

"Over empathize much?" She gave him a tiny smile.

"Just a little bit."

The conversation died, falling away into the background noise of electronics and quiet murmuring. Irritation at the low turnout aside, she was content to watch the activity around her. Final preparations were being made and more Plan Bs concocted should things go wrong. They could stay underground almost indefinitely but short of bombing Sunnydale into oblivion, that wouldn't take care of the demons waiting to eat them. She couldn't risk the people she cared about but she didn't want to be responsible for the death of an entire town either and her mind kept churning over the problem restlessly. If they left the base, even three Slayers couldn't stop what was waiting outside. Especially since one of the three was pregnant and another was going to die, one way or another, before the sun rose again.

"I am very sorry I'm late." Giles stumbled through the door with a pile of books and papers tucked under one arm, adjusting his glasses with the other hand. He glanced around the room. "Oh. Am I the only one coming?"

"You know the gang. They just can't wait to hear another motivational speech by Buffy," she answered tiredly.

"Well, if I'd known that was the purpose for this meeting." There was a twinkle in his eye as he settled his books on the corner of the desk.

"Giles."

"You know I wouldn't miss one of your speeches for the world. They're always quite…inspirational."

"Ha, ha." She pondered sticking her tongue out at him for a moment but decided that it probably wouldn't help her case. "I don't suppose you know if anyone else is going to appear."

"Willow intended to follow me here, she wanted to make sure Xander had arrived safely."

"And Dawn?" She could barely contain the relief at seeing her sister awake and moving about. Now she just needed to keep her that way.

"I gave her a list of references to find in the archives, I believe she's still working on them. I thought you might want to keep her out of the way until, well, until this blows over." He busied himself with arranging his papers.

"I'm never going to hear the end of it if she thinks she's been sidelined. Thanks a lot."

"Actually, she requested something to do. And she's quite good with the computers, much better than I am, I'm afraid."

"Well, I suppose I could give you and Riley the speech."

Riley headed back to the command table quickly. "I've got a few more charts to go over. Strategies, you know."

"Fine. No speech. Go do your Commando thing, Giles and I will discuss Slayer stuff."

Giles waited for Riley to get out of hearing range before taking a seat, "What exactly do we have to discuss, Buffy? I wasn't aware that anything had changed."

"We need a plan."

"I believe Riley has formulated quite a few of those."

"I mean a plan in which we do something other than stick our heads in the sand and hide." Buffy watched the expression on Giles' face go from surprised to disbelief.

"I hardly need to remind you that this current course of action is due to Faith and Cara's respective conditions. It's much safer to remain within the base and keep our eyes open. You can't mean to take some sort of offensive against the army of undead waiting to kill you all?" He blinked at her incredulously.

"I mean. And I need to pick your big strategy brain. I was hoping to get input from the whole gang but since it's just you, you'll have to do."

"Forgive me if I don't exactly find that flattering."

"What? You'd rather I take battle suggestions from Xander?" She gave him her best innocent look.

Giles reached for his glasses, "My big strategy brain is at your mercy."

"How long can we put off the Council before they start asking questions about Cara?"

"As long as we need to, I suppose. They're not exactly expecting us to be able to come and go as we please. Their concern is for the welfare of the people in close proximity to Cara. The last thing we need is a repeat of this morning." Giles paused in his polishing. "About Wesley…Dawn said he was here?"

"Was dead, isn't now." Buffy tried not to grind her teeth. "Cordelia wouldn't give me the specifics but Gunn looked ready to go demon hunter on her so I'm guessing it wasn't entirely a medical miracle."

"Oh. I see. Perhaps Willow should take a closer look at him."

"I was planning on asking her to do just that. If she ever shows up." She checked her watch with a sigh and reached for something to fiddle with, a paper clip or a pencil, anything to keep her hands busy. "We've got a lot of people to figure out what to do with and that's not counting Riley's men."

"I'm sure things will fall into place." Giles reassured her. "I have managed to obtain some information about how to kill some of the more unusual demons headed our way."

"Ooo! Fun new demons to slay." Buffy reached for the closest book. "Any dragons? I've always wanted a dragon."

"Very funny."

* * *

The scene was a garish blend of a hospital emergency room and a horror movie in which Frankenstein monsters of every possible combination were being stitched together and born into the world. While neither was true, both scenarios were too close to the truth for comfort and it took a certain level of scientific detachment to keep from drowning in the ethical gray of military medicine. The medical wing hummed with extraordinary activity and the novelty of having both a genuine vampire and a Deathwok demon in their midst. Dr. James cared little for noise around him, awaiting his third charge with military stoicism and brisk efficiency, eyes fixed on the charts that detailed the rogue Slayer's condition. Separating the men who had been at Genesis for her massacre from those who were new recruits was easier than dusting a vampire in the daylight. All he had to do was look for those who were dreaming about slitting her throat. It was a pity, Dr. James thought as he tapped his fingers lightly against the manila folder, that she had been reduced to mere spare parts.

"Doc?" The Slayer from Boston was jumpy as a cat; her luminous dark eyes speaking volumes about how unhappy she was to be there.

"Miss Hawkins. Just reviewing my files for the three of you." He motioned for her to follow him into his private office. Commander Finn had requested that he also look Faith Hawkins over for general health and begin a prenatal care plan. "How do you feel?"

"Tired. Comes with the territory." Faith tipped her head to get a look at the files in his hand. "Those are for Cara, right? She okay? I mean…there's not really a good question I can ask, is there?"

"She's fascinating." Dr. James answered her honestly. "We don't have a great deal of information about Slayers under severe physical trauma."

"Is she gonna be okay?" Faith was obviously uncomfortable surrounded by stainless steel and medical equipment.

"Okay is a relative term, Miss Hawkins. This will only take a minute and then we can talk about your baby." Dr. James led her into his office, closing the door and shutting out some of the noise. He quickly filed Cara's paperwork in his cabinet and removed the blank files waiting to be filled with Faith's information. Buffy's file was still waiting patiently on his desk for a break in the hectic pace when she could get a check up. He hadn't wanted to get her hopes raised unnecessarily but with the level of hormones in her blood he was optimistic that the in vitro had been successful.

"Davis." Faith corrected softly, cheeks coloring as she continued. "It's Mrs. Davis now. But not with the missus part cause that makes me feel all old and kinda freaky. How 'bout just Faith?"

"Faith it is." He gave her a small smile, noticing that she was still fidgeting uneasily. "The accommodations are less than welcoming, I'm sad to say. We don't do a lot of maternity work here."

"Are you going to cut her open? Cara." There was an audible wince in her voice.

"Not right now. It would be irresponsible to operate on her in this condition. She'll have to be stabilized first."

"Thought you were just going to kill her off anyway," Faith countered sarcastically.

"It's damage or contamination of the ovaries that I'm worried about." He settled into his chair and began filling out the basics, height, weight, and other information that had been forwarded from the Boston medical unit. "With a cursory examination, I found signs of dehydration and malnourishment. We'll start with a standard trauma drip easy on the sedatives, I don't want down time waiting for drugs to clear her system. She's not an animal and I don't intend to treat her like one."

In the background, he could hear the techs scurrying about the lab gathering necessary materials and test results; it struck him once again how markedly different the women were from each other and from the rest of the world. They were an exclusive club that was unknown and untouched by ignorant outsiders. For a moment he wished that there were a hundred more of them. A larger sample size would give them a better chance to learn what being a Slayer meant, what parts of them were their personalities and what part was the Slayer. How much of Buffy's soulful eyes and quiet strength would have been apparent if she was a normal woman? Would Faith still be as volatile? And would Cara remain the unbreakable cipher beneath all those scars? The very fact that her heart still beating with the power and determination of a plow horse was astonishing.

"Did you know she broke her right arm twice?"

"What?" Faith blinked with surprise.

"We didn't know it was possible either. Miss Summers has never broken any bones and neither have you, if my files are correct."

"They are."

"Part of the requirements for field work is a complete physical examination. X-rays, blood tests, the works." Dr. James hesitated for a moment, caught in the memory. "It was right after the incident here. I think there was still blood on her hands when I saw her. At the time I didn't fully understand what had happened or who I was dealing with."

"She's had a bitch of a time." Faith's tone softened and her eyes dropped to her lap.

That was another aspect that Dr. James longed to study. Was there a bond between Slayers? An unspoken understanding built on shared responsibilities or perhaps a more direct, even mystical, connection between the three of them. Would studying one Slayer give them real data about every Slayer or should they be treated as distinct individuals? He pushed the jumbled thoughts away. "It will be done as humanely as possible, I can promise you that."

Faith folded her arms protectively, and probably unconsciously, over her stomach. For someone who was defiantly blasé about her pregnancy, he had no doubt that she would move mountains to protect her unborn child. "When? Will it be tonight?"

"Time will tell. I'd like to keep an eye on her, see how she responds to the solution. Physiologically she's skating on very thin ice and Slayer or not, her body needs time to repair and rebuild. The energy it has to be directing toward healing those burns alone must be astounding. Our lab is well equipped to deal with the human body pushed to exceed limitations but it always takes time." He glanced at his watch and shuffled the schedule in his head. "We'll begin surgery as soon as I can be sure she's stable enough to proceed and then keep the ovaries on ice until they can be safely taken off base."

"I'd like to be here. When you…when you put her out. For good." She finally settled into one of the chairs. "We should be there, me and Buffy."

"I understand. And believe me that it will be completely painless for her. The chemicals gradually stop the heart, thirty seconds is all, perhaps longer for a Slayer."

"Just like going to sleep."

"Precisely." He could sense that there was more she wanted to say. Perhaps more questions to ask or even protestations about the Slayer's end, which he would simply redirect to Commander Finn. There were occasions when it was beneficial to not be the one making the tough decisions. He tried to give her a comforting smile. "Now let's make sure everything is all right with you and your baby." He moved around the desk and slipped the stethoscope out from beneath his lap coat.

"When does this goddamn morning sickness go away?" Faith's expression turned to a scowl. "And what's up with calling it morning sickness? I feel like I'm gonna puke the whole damn day."

"Yes. Morning sickness is rather a misnomer but it's a good sign. Means that the hormones levels are high and that usually means a healthy pregnancy. Take a deep breath." He checked her lungs and heart first, slipping the stethoscope into his ears and listening to the symphony beneath her skin. "Heart rate is a bit elevated but that could be nerves."

"Not too big on doctors." Faith commented, eyes straight ahead and following his instructions diligently.

"Have you had an ultrasound? You're still early into the pregnancy but I'd like to take a look, get my bearings so to speak."

"Point me at the hoops, Doc, and I'll jump."

Traffic lessened and all but disappeared as Leia made her way toward the surgery bay at the far end of the medical wing; most of the base dwellers were busy making preparations in the heart of Genesis. Finding where they had stashed the crazy Slayer had been easy, a few questions with some gratuitous name-dropping had done the trick in a matter of minutes. She wasn't sure why exactly she felt compelled to see the Slayer. Maybe to reassure her self that she wasn't able to take a human life even if the victim wasn't entirely human, entirely sane, or even awake. Perhaps she wanted to see that this Slayer really existed and if there would be a moment where she wished she could kill her and get her family back. Not that getting a brainwashed family was actually the same thing. Lawyers, evil lawyers in particular, never understood the difference.

No one had told her not to wander around but it still felt like she was sneaking out of the school building after cutting class and at any moment the hall monitor would round the corner and give her detention. Stifling a nervous giggle, she paused before making her last right turn and tried to compose herself in case she did run into someone. A footstep later she was glad that she had, seeing two men in tense discussion outside the door she was looking for. One was dressed in uniform and armed while the other was in jeans and a t-shirt, probably another guest at Genesis waiting for the nightmare to end.

"Dr. James is planning on checking her within the hour. Make it look like she woke up earlier than he thought and attacked him, everyone will believe that. The timing has to be perfect. Sunset's in less than an hour and the drugs I slipped Sam will take that long to work but Dr. James has to be here first or it won't be believable." The man in jeans checked his watch.

"And you're sure that Sam will be fine?"

"As long as Finn gets her out of Sunnydale and into a hospital, she'll live." The man didn't seem to care one way or another. "Once Sam goes into labor and Dr. James is out of commission all eyes will be everywhere but here. There's your window, take it."

A curt nod was the soldier's only response but Leia noticed that his grip on the firearm tightened. She was frozen in her tracks, terrified that they would look up and see her if she even breathed. Heart pounding in her chest, she eased her weight back onto her left foot as slowly as she could and tried to slip back around the corner before they spotted her. If they were actually planning what she thought she'd heard then they wouldn't be pleased with her as an accidental witness. She didn't know if it was her shoe that creaked or the floor itself. There was just a second where her eyes met the brown eyes of the soldier, watched in slow motion as the other man turned around before she stumbled backward and ran.

The man in jeans caught her in less than twenty feet, his long legs eating up the space between them. One hand clamped down on her shoulder and he shoved her down hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs. Gasping for air, she cried out as her arm twisted painfully behind her back and he yanked her forcibly back down the hallway.

"Please! I didn't….I won't tell anyone!" Tears stung her eyes when he wrenched her arm even harder.

"Shit." The soldier slapped his hand across her mouth and gave her a terrifying glare. "Who is she?"

"Came in with the Sunnydale group." The other man looked furious. "Which means someone is going to miss her. Let her talk. What are you doing here?"

"I…I wanted to see her," Leia stammered, blood trickling from her lip where her teeth had cut the skin. "The Slayer. I just…just wanted to see. For myself."

"Does anyone know you're here?" he demanded sharply, accenting his words with another twist of her arm.

"No!" Leia cried out, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I didn't tell anyone."

"What do we do now? Call it off, Birkman." The soldier put his hand back over her mouth to keep her quiet.

"I've already given Sam the drug and the vampires are still coming," Birkman snarled back. "There's no problem. She came looking for the Slayer and she found her. Just like Dr. James will."

The soldier's eyes narrowed, "She's not part of this."

"She is now. Take her in that room and do what you have to. Got it?" Birkman shoved her brutally toward the man. "Just make sure you hold up your end, Garrett. Now she knows both our names." He gave her one last chilling look before disappearing down the corridor.

Leia tried to stop crying, blinking away the tears as quickly as they formed. Once her arm was free she tried to massage away the stabbing pain in her shoulder and elbow. The man named Garrett was silent as he swiped his security pass to unlock the door and pushed her into the darkened room. Her first image was blurry, eyes adjusting to the dim light, but she could make out a tall woman strapped to an operating table while the heart monitor beside her beeped quietly in the unnatural stillness.

"Sit down." Garrett ordered harshly, nodding toward a stool along the wall.

"Please let me go." Leia took a seat, pulling away from him as much as she could. "I promise I won't say anything."

"What's your name?"

"Leia. I'm…I'm here with Willow."

Recognition sparked in his eyes, "The witch."

"Yeah."

"No one's going to get hurt." Garrett rounded on her with sudden intensity. "Except the Slayer and she deserves to die."

"I don't know anything about her. Just please let me go." Leia wiped at her tears, some of her terror lessening as she began to hope that he wasn't going to hurt her.

His eyes seemed to be focused somewhere beyond her and when he spoke his voice was soft and far away. "I was here when she…when she killed them. I was one of the guards who let her in. Supposed to take her down to the conference room, supposed to make sure she got there. She left me in the hallway with a broken jaw and shattered knee but she let me live. And she," his face contorted with fury and pain. "She kissed me."

Leia shrunk back, knowing there was nothing she could do or say in the face of such hatred. She glanced around for a place to run or even something to defend her self with if he decided to vent his rage on her.

"I have to." His voice was soft again. "I'm sorry. But she has to pay for what she did and that means I have to follow the plan. I can't let you go. I'm sorry. I'll make sure Willow knows where you are."

"Wh-what are you going to do to me?"

"Hold still." Garrett moved toward her slowly, hands held palms out as if to calm her. "This is going to hurt a bit but you'll be okay. Bruised and probably have a headache but you'll live."

"Please." Leia pulled back against the wall, eyes wide with fear.

"I have to hit you. It's more realistic that way, like the Slayer did it."

"Please."

"Try not to clench your jaw, you might bite your tongue." He moved faster than she thought he could, reaching out and grabbing her arm to keep her from running. Leia closed her eyes tightly, tense and waiting. Stars flashed along with the pain shooting through her jaw and neck, the sound of his fist striking echoing in her ears as she crashed to the side. Her elbow hit the wall on the way down and she felt as though the whole world was spinning around her before the room closed in and swallowed her whole.

* * *

Not even the darkness of unconsciousness was restful. There was never any peace to be found under any of the rocks and she could dig as deeply as she could into the muck but she would never find it. Frozen in suspension, waiting for her body to heal itself and her mind to find its way through the tangled roots of the past. Where Lilah ended and Cara began was no longer an edge that could be found or a line that could be drawn. There was just who she was _now_ rising up through the chaos and taking form. A Slayer was all she needed to be, all she would ever be, and a Slayer had one purpose.

It was that purpose that haunted the stillness of involuntary sleep and kept her mind spinning through the void with desperate impatience as it waited for her body to renew what had been lost. She didn't want it, didn't want to care if any of them lived or died. All she wanted was peace and quiet, a moment without pain or fatigue. Didn't want to recognize the turmoil brewing at the edges of her skin, where she met the world and the war began. Every time she opened up her eyes, there was nothing but blood and pain and someone else's life passing her by. There were moments scattered like bits of bones and teeth strewn over a battlefield, moments that didn't cut and bleed or leave her aching for a past she no longer had. It had been her life once.

She saw the world through a haze, through a glass so dark and bitter that she didn't know what it felt like to stand in the light. In the depths of her mind, she could hear Wesley's voice telling her that something inside was dark and always had been. That there was a part of her that didn't belong, a piece that was responsible for everything her hands had done. The piece hadn't been swallowed up by light and life and she didn't glow the way that Buffy did.

Nerves tingled at the tips of her fingers and the cold seeped through her skin, reminding her that once again that her heart had refused to stop pumping life through her veins. For an instant, she willed it to let her sleep forever, to finally rest and slip away, but it kept pounding beneath her ribs and the tingling spread up her arms. Shoulders were stiff and aching from endless fighting. Burns stung anew as the blood began to return, still trying to heal the same old wounds. That part was familiar. Wait for the fog to clear and adrenaline to slip into the bloodstream, jolting her back into pain. For now, there was nothing to do but wait as consciousness kicked in and sensation returned to her body inch by inch. How many times had she laid against the jungle floor, covered in the mud and leaves, her own blood trickling into the earth as she waited to heal enough to stand back up? To stumble back into the camp where she would find a first aid kit waiting for her and uncomfortable eyes looking everywhere else.

Feeling a thousand years older than her age, she tried to inhale slowly and shift her weight onto the less burned side of her body. Her vision was blurry but could make out the shadowy sterility of a surgical room. The beeping in her ears coincided with each determined heartbeat. Gingerly, she tested her strength against the restraints and listened to the soft jingle of the metal links. The metal was lightweight, looping through the heavier leather and attaching to the table beneath her. There wasn't enough play in the restraints around her wrists to reach under the table and unhook the clasps.

Closing her eyes to focus on taking slow and even breaths, she bent her knees as far as the strap across her thighs would allow. Contracting toward her feet, the restraint across her chest slipped up an inch toward her neck. It was slow going, curling and uncurling like an inchworm creeping along a branch. The strap slipped up onto her neck, then her face, and finally she could duck and twist underneath it. With her torso free, she worked at the clasp around her right wrist with her teeth until it finally slipped open. Sweat was stinging in the burns on the side of her face by the time she had one hand free to undo the rest of the restraints.

Hands shaking violently, she doggedly held on to the table as she lowered her legs over the side and tried to stand without her knees buckling. With white knuckles and her stomach clenching painfully, she disconnected the wires measuring each heartbeat, quieting the monitor with a push of a button. If they were watching, they would have been here when the guard had dragged the woman into the room and knocked her out. Tugging weakly at the neckline of her t-shirt, stiff with her blood and speckled with Wesley's, she quietly knelt beside the crumpled figure and checked her pulse. Strong and steady. She'd said her name was Leia. It brought images of another time, another place, another Leia staring up at her with wide eyes. The other Leia she hadn't been able to save. She brushed her fingers over silky blonde hair and wondered if it would be any different this time. Maybe she would be able to save this one.

Her stomach clenched again when she thought of Garrett standing outside the room and unaware of anything but the blood pounding in her ears, she crept to the door to peer through the narrow window; watching him for several minutes and noting that he checked his watch repeatedly, glancing up and down the hallway each time. Waiting for something or someone. She backed away from the door slowly, knowing that Garrett would sooner slit her throat than stand guard over her as she slept. If he hadn't already tried to kill her in her sleep then it was simply part of his plan and if Buffy had wanted her dead, she would never have woken up. Outside the surgical bay was a trap waiting to spring and she had no intention of letting him pull the trigger.

As silently as possible, she searched through the cabinets for something that would steady her hands. In the back of the room a set of locked doors whispered hidden promise of success; she broke the lock with a hard twist and hoped the sound hadn't been loud enough to arouse the suspicion of the man outside. Inside were the neatly stacked kits that she had seen the medics carrying in Brazil, each one labeled with the conditions it could benefit. With trembling fingers, she collected several kits and laid them out on the counter top. She emptied one of them and began restocking it with the particular cocktails she needed: trauma, blood loss, and malnourishment. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten anything. Last but not least, she collected all of the syringes containing adrenaline and painkillers.

The needle cap from one of the pain cocktails slipped from her clumsy fingers and dropped to the floor with barely a sound. She used her teeth to pull the arm strap tight above her elbow, clenching her fist tightly. It took all of her concentration to keep the needle steady enough to pierce her skin and push it into a vein in her left arm. By the time she had emptied the syringe, the drugs were already taking effect and the ever-present pain began to lessen. She selected one for malnourishment and tried to focus again. And again. Her head was spinning by the time she pulled the last needle out of her arm and yanked off the strap. Blood oozed from the needle marks but she didn't bother to wipe it away. Compulsively, she slipped one of the empty syringes into her pocket. Any weapon was better than being unarmed.

Without the pain, she could move a little easier. She gathered up the remaining syringes, closed the modified kit, and took a better look around the room. Leaving wouldn't be possible without killing or wounding Garrett and she needed to remain undetected. She needed more time. The tiny seed of an idea began to take root. Setting the field kit gently on a countertop, she returned to the unconscious woman and slipped her arms beneath her legs and back. In her weakened state her muscles shook with the exertion of lifting what should have been no weight at all. She concentrated on putting one foot down after the other, crossing the room to gently lay the woman down on the surgery table. Clumsy fingers fumbled with the restraints; fastening them loosely around slender wrists, ankles, and over the woman's legs and chest. She repositioned the heart monitor's contact pads on the woman's chest and began to unwind her bandages, transferring them neatly to Leia's limbs. Beneath the gauze was red, angry skin that had been burnt, torn, and bruised until she wondered how there was any skin left.

Despite the anger she had felt toward the Council, she found solace in the methodical practices they had instilled, the ones Lilah had chosen to keep. Bit by bit, she wearily took stock of her condition and impassively decided that the results were bleak even with the cocktails she'd dumped into her bloodstream. They would keep her alive and blissfully free of pain just long enough. Mentally checking off each wound, each ache and pain, she tried to determine how much it would cut into her abilities and how soon she would recover. She was in no condition to fight and there wasn't enough time to heal. Her gamble had paid off, however, and she wasn't trapped in the chemical chains of the monstrous drug they kept filling her with. She wouldn't have to drown in nothingness for hours too long, unable to feel or react to the world around her. Every second mattered now.

Her muscles were deliberately relaxed and loose, her back against the wall behind the door so that when it swung inward she would be out of the sight line and have a few seconds advantage. More than anything she needed to stay off the radar until it happened. Whatever _it_ was. She wasn't sure if it was simple intuition or if her mind was playing tricks on her but the thought that she was missing something nagged at her incessantly. Hiding in the ground was what they wanted, was still playing the game by Wolfram and Hart's rules. Slayers weren't meant to hide and every human within the base was a potential spy.

With her eyes closed, time sped by unwatched and unnoticed, measured only by the slow rhythm of this new Leia's heartbeat. Sunset was coming; she could feel it despite the feet of earth above and around her, could feel the storm brewing beyond the darkened room. Slayer sense, Buffy had called it. The tiny voice inside that wasn't hers, perhaps a past Slayer watching over those who lived now. According to the Watcher's Council, the average lifespan of a Slayer was less than two years. She had known that before she was called but the others hadn't, the ones she saw in her dreams. She always saw them dying and wondered if they left behind family and friends. Or if they were they like her and left nothing other than their own broken bodies.

Boots cast shadows that slipped beneath the door and she knew the end had finally begun. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. No more time for thinking. Just the fight, the dance. Just doing what needed to be done. The door hissed open and three men entered; one guard, Garrett, and two men in white lab coats. The older man with graying hair moved with the crisp stride of decades of military training; his focus on the woman he believed to be the Slayer and the lab technician following him like a faithful dog. She smiled as Garrett scanned the room with his grip tightening on the gun, knowing there should be another person in the room but unable to find her.

"Wait a second." The doctor sounded both puzzled and alarmed. "Cara Sewell doesn't have blonde hair."

"Shit." Garrett swung his rifle into position and spun around.

Cara was a second faster. The barrel of the gun slapped against her right palm as she pushed it out of the way and drove her left fist into Garrett's throat. He stumbled backwards, choking and gasping for air. Spinning on her heel, she took out the lab tech with a kick that sent him crashing against the wall. The doctor stood his ground, facing her without any outward show of fear. His hand was open against the side of his coat and she knew there was a holster at his hip. Even the doctors were armed at Genesis.

"I didn't hurt her," Cara informed him without emotion.

"Who is she?"

"Bait."

The doctor nodded slightly, glancing at the surgery table and the woman named Leia. "What do you want?"

An enraged scream cut off any answer she might have given him and Garrett barreled into her with surprising force. Air fled from her lungs as she hit the cold tile floor, the burns on her neck screaming as the damaged skin cracked and split. Strong hands held onto her arms, dragging her across the floor and slamming her hard into the concrete wall. Stars spun through her vision as she twisted and tried to pull away. Metal brushed against her face and she shoved it away wildly; gunshots echoed harshly in her ears and the sound of ricocheting bullets was almost physically painful. Something crashed to the floor with a clatter. Black exploded across her vision and she fell back against the floor, struggling with the burning in her lungs.

"Why won't you just die?" Garrett shouted into her ringing ears. His weight settled firmly onto her lower abdomen, keeping her pinned against the floor and making it hard to breathe.

Cara coughed, tasting blood in her mouth and blinking her eyes open. A blurry image faded in and out, jerking from side to side rhythmically. She was confused until she realized that the jerking coincided with a burst of pain in her jaw and face. Gasping for air, she didn't fight back, couldn't fight back as he struck her over and over. Lost in the haze, she felt herself slipping back into unconsciousness when the beating finally stopped. Each breath was painful and the weight on her stomach hadn't lessened. Ice-cold metal pressed sharply into her neck just beneath her jaw. She waited.

"Open your fucking eyes." The voice ordered harshly.

She swallowed a mouthful of blood, turning her face and trying to open her eyes. One was badly bruised and rapidly swelling, making her vision unclear and distorted. Blinking painfully, she managed to focus on the face above her and the searching brown eyes she had seen a hundred thousand times in her nightmares. Angry, hateful. Afraid.

"There's just one thing I want to know before I blow your fucking head off." He adjusted his grip on the gun, pressing harder into the vulnerable spot beneath her jaw. "That day, when you…you kissed me. Tell me why." The muscles in his jaw ticked and a bead of sweat slid down the side of his face. Cara winced as the gun dug into her throat, trying not to cough and possibly startle him into firing. "Answer the question," he snarled, grabbing hold of the front of her shirt and pulling her up until their faces were only inches apart. The gun flipped around, now pressing into the side of her skull as he held her close.

"Why do you care?" Cara tried to look away only to have her jaw protest as he twisted her face back toward him.

"Did you think you were doing me some kind of favor?" Garrett hissed. "Or were you just trying to humiliate me even more? Was that it?"

"No." Cara ground out through clenched teeth, caught between the barrel of the gun and his fury.

"Why didn't you kill me?" The scream pounded into her skull with the force of a blow. "Tell me why, goddammit!"

Shivering with cold and fatigue, Cara tried to form the words and push them through her lips. "Because…I…"

"Well?" He gripped her heavy braid in his left hand and glared at her impatiently.

"I…you…you were," she nearly choked as he yanked her hair again. "I…wanted. To kiss you. Wanted you."

He stared at her, eyes wide with disbelief. "You've got to be fucking kidding." She swallowed more blood and shook her head, finding enough strength to place one hand on the floor and support some of her own weight. He leaned close enough to brush his lips against her cheek softly, close enough for his breath to tickle against her ear and his voice to barely be heard. "I wouldn't touch you for the world. Would never, could never, want you. Even if you were the last woman in this entire fucking universe, I would never fuck you." Cara tried to pull away, eyes stinging with tears she didn't understand. He jerked her back roughly and tightened his grip on her hair, "I'm not finished, bitch. You're sick. You're a sick, filthy animal. You're nothing."

"Sorry." She tried to meet his eyes one last time.

"Shut up!" Garrett shifted his grip, twisting the gun away from her head to shake her brutally. "No one cares that you're sorry! All those people you killed? You'll never make up for that. You'll always be a murderer."

"Not for that." Cara slammed her forearm against the inside of his arm and pinned his wrist to the floor, taking the gun out of the equation. The empty syringe she'd stowed in her pocket tumbled into her fingers and even with her hand shaking, she drove the needle straight into his heart. Cold air rather than painkillers spilled into his blood and his eyes widened instantly, breathing accelerating rapidly even as he fought to get away. He clutched his chest, unable to speak, but his eyes spoke volumes as he slumped to the floor. Then they were empty and peaceful.

Cara rubbed her jaw gingerly and looked around. From the surgery table, Leia stared in horror at the wreckage of the room and the lifeless body of the doctor. The gunfire must have roused her from unconsciousness. Blood had turned the doctor's white lab coat crimson, spreading out from bullet wounds in his chest and abdomen.

"Was that part of the plan?" She asked timidly.

"Fucking gun." Cara rolled Garrett onto his back and began stripping away his uniform. He was the right height and had lost enough weight in the jungle that the clothing wouldn't be a noticeable difference on her. Quickly shedding the blood stained t-shirt and sweats, she was glad for the feel of fatigues against her legs. The uniform covered all but the burns on her face. Once dressed, with the utility belt comfortingly around her waist and the rifle slung over her shoulder, she unbuckled the restraints and helped Leia off of the surgery table.

"Are you going to kill me?" Leia was shaking hard enough to rattle the restraints and looked as though she was going to vomit at any moment.

Cara shook her head absently, "Once the killing starts, stick close to Willow. They'll have a plan, they always have a plan. Trust them."

"What do I tell them about…?" Trailing off, she glanced around the room and her face turned a darker shade of green.

"Doesn't matter. I'm already dead." She'd killed everything and everyone, who had ever meant anything. Anyone who had ever sparked something inside of her and made her feel alive. There was nothing but blood and death now.

* * *

Cordelia wasn't sure if it was out of habit or if she was seeking the comfort of familiarity when she dug out the reference key she'd gotten from Files and Records before her world had gone topsy-turvy. It was worn and familiar from weeks trapped underground and felt like the only friend she had since she was in unofficial exile from the rest of the group. Still too angry and shocked, they were talking about her at the far end of the library, or research wing, whatever it was called. Wesley had been taken to one of the bunkrooms to get some needed rest. Since it wasn't likely that any of them were going anywhere now that sunset had arrived and the base was closing up tighter than a drum, she could wait for them to come around.

Words she already knew by heart moved in and out of focus on the page. Vampire with a soul fights the Big Evil and gets a shanshu out of hell card. There were a few vague references to casting out a demon. As if Angel hadn't done enough of that. He'd cast out enough demons to fill an entire hell dimension and that didn't seem to be enough for the Powers That Be. With a sigh, she continued flipping through pages without really reading. She didn't need to anymore.

"Hey, Cordy." Dawn approached her cautiously.

"Better not tell Big Sis you're talking to me. She'd throw another tantrum."

"You made a deal with the people who tried to kill you, do you blame her?" Dawn asked pointedly.

"No." Cordelia sighed and motioned to the seat across the table. "But I'd do again in a heartbeat. It's Wesley, Dawn. I don't really expect you to understand, he's different than he was when you knew him."

Dawn sat down and set her book on the table, "I think I found something. I think I found what you are."

"Really?" Cordelia leaned over to get a better look at the ancient book she was holding.

"Here. It's not really a demon. Well, sort of." Dawn opened the book and turned it around so Cordelia could read the words. At least, she could have read the words if they were in English.

"Dawn?"

"Oh. Sorry. Sumerian," Dawn laughed a little awkwardly. "It's not so much that you're half demon, you're just half not quite human. I started with anything that glows and narrowed it down from there. Turns out there're only a few of anything that go glowy and most of them are insects or worms. Since you don't have any insecty appendages, I ruled those out."

"Good to know."

"That leaves a couple different types of demony critters. Human-ish and peaceful. This one." She pointed to a picture of a slender being in long robes, "Is a Purifier demon, that's a rough translation. They're not found in this dimension and they can't actually survive here in their true form. Something in the air I guess. But maybe if they were stuffed into a human? They've been known to heal things, get rid of nasties, that kind of thing."

"That actually makes sense." Cordelia scrutinized the picture more closely. "When Connor first came back for Quortoth, he attacked me and I started glowing. I didn't have control of it then. But I could feel all the darkness and hate and anger inside of him just wash away. All that poison."

"It didn't kill him?"

"No. It just…" Cordelia felt the words die in her throat.

"Cordy?"

"It just cast out his demons." The world around her had suddenly become crystal clear. Lindsey's voice repeated in her mind; _That's the problem with the good guys…You never ask the right questions. _Angel had assumed that he hadn't been meant to kill Jasmine, that doing so had cost him his Shanshu. Her mind raced as the pieces slid into place. Lilah said it had been there the entire time, right beneath their noses. She had known what Cordelia was, Lindsey knew what she was. They had known the entire time but had kept Angel just busy enough not to look too closely. Could it be that simple? Questions began piling up noisily, demanding her attention in screeching, impatient voices.

"You okay?" Dawn was watching her with unsettling focus.

"Bear with me here." She tightened her grip on the reference key. "The Senior Partners know how Angel gets his Shanshu, maybe even that he's already earned it but forgot to pick up the claim ticket. Skip, that shiny metal traitor, told Angel that it was all one big plan to get Jasmine here. Connor, Darla, me, everything just one piece of the same puzzle."

"I'm with you so far."

"But there's no way the Powers That Be weren't in on it. Jasmine told Angel she was one of them so they had to know about her. And if they've been using Angel as their go to guy all this time, why send him some evil demon thing and not want him to kill it?"

"Umm…"

"So him killing Jasmine had to be part of the plan." Cordelia frowned at nothing in particular. "Then why is he still a vampire? And why is Wolfram and Hart keeping him around?"

"Maybe things didn't go the way they'd planned." Dawn offered.

Another piece clicked. She felt the color and heat drain from her cheeks. "It had nothing to do with Jasmine, it was about Connor. Whatever he was."

"Cordy? I don't like that look."

"Lindsey asked if Cara had been interested anyone particular, if she'd known something she couldn't have known, that no one else knew. Oh my God, they're not after Cara." She bolted from the table and headed for the exit.

"Wait! What's going on?" Dawn caught up with her in the hallway.

"I need to find Buffy. I can't believe I was so stupid." She glanced around, trying to remember which way the Command Center was. "It's Spike. The Senior Partners don't know what he is but if he's like Connor then they'll try to kill him. With Connor dead, The Powers had to find another way. Angel was a dead end."

"That's…surprisingly not as crazy as it sounds."

"Cara recognized what he was because she has Lilah's memories." A loud crack ended her train of thought and she stumbled when something heavy struck her in the back. Twisting around, she realized that Dawn had fallen against her and struggled to prop the young woman up. Her hands touched warm and damp as a dark red stain spread across the fabric of Dawn's t-shirt. She was stunned speechless when she looked up and saw Wesley holding a gun with a silencer attached.

"Very good, but you're a little late."

"Wesley?" Cordelia pulled Dawn into her arms, frantically trying to stop the bleeding. She could feel the girl's heartbeat fading. "What are you doing?"

"Now, now. I can't have anyone else knowing about your sudden epiphany but thank you for figuring it out for me. You're right; we will have to kill Spike now. And the last thing I want is for you to go getting ideas about making Angel human again. We have a great deal invested in keeping him a vampire for a very long time." The gleam in his eye was disconcerting. "I must admit that the Powers certainly have a twisted sense of humor, making you the key to Angel's Shanshu. Rather sadistic, don't you think? Did you ever wonder if there's really that much difference between the Powers and the Senior Partners?"

"Wesley? What's going on?"

"Oh yes. There is the unfortunate change of appearance." He shrugged casually and waved his gun to direct her toward a door on her right. "You know, I can't recall if we ever met. Such a pity, you're quite lovely. Into the storage room, please."

Cordelia tried not to panic as she half carried and half dragged Dawn's limp form into the dark room. "Who are you?"

"Lilah wasn't the only one who deserved a new body and I must say, this one is quite adequate. You have to be willing pay the price of service, believing that you will be rewarded for your loyalty." The familiar smile had become menacing and cold. "Holland Manners. And it's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." He raised the gun and fired.

* * *

It might have been the sirens that cut through the chemical haze in Angel's brain and sent him plummeting back to consciousness; then again it could have been Lorne frantically trying to wake him by dumping a gallon of ice water over his head. Shaking like a dog, he sprayed water over the room around him and tried to blink the droplets out of his eyes. "Lorne! I'm awake! What are you doing?"

Lorne waved recklessly at the strobe lights and yelled over the screeching sirens, "Something's gone wrong in a Titanic hits the iceberg kinda of way. Gotta get you up and moving!" He stripped away the needles and tubes.

Angel was surprised to find that he could move easier and the burns had faded to pink instead of the angry red. Hoping that moving around would clear his head, he grabbed a spare lab coat to dry his face and hair and followed Lorne out the door. Outside the med unit was pure chaos. They kept flat against the wall, trying to stay out of the way of the armed guards and the lab techs running through the hallways as though the hounds of hell were behind them.

"What happened?" He shouted to Lorne.

"Don't know! Have to get to the Command Center!"

Angel jumped out of the way of a tech bearing a cart of medical supplies and equipment, barely avoiding being clipped by the metal edges. He glanced down the hallway to see if any more were headed his way and caught the scent of blood. Fresh and familiar. Cordelia. Ignoring the rush of people around him, he shoved his way through them to follow the smell.

"Angel? Where are you going?"

Lorne's cry fell on deaf ears. Completely focused on the smell of blood, Angel made a left and continued to shoulder his way past anyone who had the unfortunate fate of being in the hallway. Another scent was mixed in with Cordelia's and for a brief, terrifying moment he thought it might be Buffy's blood. He passed a door labeled Storage and stopped, checking both directions. It was strongest here. The door was locked when he tried the doorknob. Twisting as hard as he could, the lock snapped and he nearly ripped the door off of its hinges.

Cordelia lay on the floor; her face pale and blood dripping down her neck into a pool on the floor. Dawn was wrapped tightly in her arms, as though she'd tried to protect her from something. He could tell that it was too late for Dawn; she had already slipped away. Collapsing onto his knees beside them, he pressed his fingers against Cordelia's neck and felt the faint pulse beneath her skin. Frantically, he searched for the source of blood and found a bullet wound in her chest, a hair's width away from her heart.

"Somebody help me! Somebody!" He bellowed into the hallway. "Hang on, Cordy. Hang on."

"Angel." Her lips barely moved.

"Don't talk, you'll be okay."

The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, "Liar."

"Don't leave me, Cordy."

"It was me, Angel. It was me all along."

"Shh. Don't talk."

Very slowly, she lifted her hand from Dawn's back and placed it lightly over his heart. "Wish I could've seen you. In the sun." Her fingertips began to shimmer and glow, spreading across his chest and shoulders. Holding onto her hand as tightly as he dared, he closed his eyes against the glowing light before it swallowed up the world around him. A jolt of pain shot through him from head to toe and he could hear Angelus screaming inside his head before the demon was ripped away in a flood of light. Blood pounded in his ears, heart contracted, and lungs filled with a desperate, drowning breath. The earth shook beneath his feet and the shelves rattled around him, boxes of cleaning supplies crashing down to the floor.

Once the shaking stopped, he had to close his eyes to quiet the spinning in his head. Every inch of his body hummed with life from the roots of his hair to the tips of his fingers and it was all he could do not to get up and run screaming from the room. He'd waited so long, had fought and bled and clung to the remaining shred of hope that he hadn't been abandoned. That lives hadn't been lost in vain and that he wasn't just another crackpot's prophecy. Another part of him had never believed it was possible because it meant that he'd managed, somehow, to atone for centuries of evil. He knew that to be impossible. Suddenly he was utterly terrified of the clean slate he had been given. He could be wounded beyond repair, he could get sick, and now he would be mortal. He would be just another human being on a crowded planet.

Reaching out with trembling fingers to brush a strand of chestnut hair from Cordelia's face, he wished that he could give the Shanshu back in exchange for her. Wished that he could be strong enough to protect her the second time around. He was useless in the middle of a war and unable to curse anyone but himself for it. Cordelia had worked harder than anyone to discover the secret in the cards The Powers That Be dealt him and he had no doubt she would have come back from the grave to make sure he found it. Why did it have to be now? Now, when everyone he cared for was either lying in his arms with their life bled out onto the floor or waiting underground for the inevitable carnage to come? Irony wasn't a strong enough word. Unfair didn't do it justice either.

It had never been enough that his soul, his conscience reminded him every waking moment of every person he'd ever killed. Eternal remorse wasn't enough to atone for what he'd done. Everyone he loved had to be taken away from him. He had to lose Buffy, Doyle, Wesley, Cordelia, Connor. Had to watch as he lost another and another. Until there was no one left and he'd finally paid the price of a soul.

The hallway behind him was still bustling with noise and footsteps, people coming and going with the sirens wailing in their ears. Death had come and taken his quota and Life marched on with barely a glance toward the tragedy. As much as he wanted it to, the world wasn't going to end and time wasn't going to stop because he'd gotten his heart torn apart just as it started beating again. Everything was covered with a sheen of loss and pain. That was what it meant to be alive. In the centuries of immortality, he had forgotten how tenuous and brutal life could be. Well, not forgotten. He'd been acutely aware of that as it pertained to his victims but had forgotten what it was to feel for himself. Now he'd been laid bare before a desert hurricane with sand and wind that bit, tore, and sliced through skin and muscle. He had wanted this. Fate may have chosen him but he had chosen to keep his feet on the path. What path was there for him to follow now?

The next sound he recognized was Buffy's scream. Fingers were clawing at him and pulling the young woman away from him. She clung to Dawn, shoulders shaking violently as she sobbed into the dead girl's hair.

He pulled Cordelia closer, feeling her skin cool beneath his touch and no longer able to distinguish the smell of her blood from Dawn's. They stayed on the floor of the storage room, holding the lifeless bodies of those they had loved until the blood began to dry on skin and cloth. Until Buffy had cried all the tears her slim frame contained and then some. He touched her shoulder gently, heart breaking anew at the pain in her eyes when she looked up.

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

"We will find who did this. I promise you that." Strong and cold, her voice was a stark contrast to her tears.

He nodded and pulled his hand away, slipping it under Cordelia's legs and carefully getting to his feet with her body in his arms. "Where?"

"There's a morgue." Buffy wiped her tears away before she stood up beside him, still holding Dawn in her arms. "We can put them there until…until we can bury them."

He couldn't meet the eyes staring at them. Eyes of those he'd never met but who looked at him with the horror and sympathy of someone who understood his loss. They cleared the hallway quickly, letting him and Buffy pass through them without hindrance. In the background he could hear Riley barking orders and while the flashing lights still bathed the hallways in red and white, the sirens died away.

No words were spoken as they made their way to the morgue and gently laid the bodies on two of the tables. He noticed that the men who took over from there were in shock, their faces ashen. They would have known Dawn, he realized. He was too numb to do more than dumbly watch as they began to prepare the bodies for storage. It was Lorne who finally took hold of his arm and pulled him gently from the morgue. Buffy followed him, her face still white as snow.

"Did you…see anything?" She asked quietly once the doors closed behind them.

Angel shook his head, "Smelled the blood. Dawn was already…when I got there."

"Nothing you could do." Her voice was distant. "Nothing we could do."

She took a deep breath and seemed to brace herself for whatever would come next. "We need to get back to the command center. Everyone. It's going to be a long night."

The walk back through the corridors was a blur of sights and sounds, Lorne keeping one hand on his arm to make sure he took the right turns and didn't get lost in the bustle. He doubted he would remember any of it. The image of Cordelia's body would dominate his vision long after her blood was washed from his skin. With his eyes down, he could avoid the stares and not face anyone's sympathy. It would be too much to handle. Too much to take in along with the blood that wasn't his and the heartbeat he shouldn't have. All conversation died when they entered the command center and he could tell from the deathly silence that something was very wrong.

"Buffy?" Willow stepped forward. The blonde woman at her side looked equally terrified and devastated, holding an ice pack against her jaw so tightly that her knuckles were white.

"Dawn and Cordelia are dead." Buffy answered coldly. "They were shot and left in a storage room. I don't care what it takes…find out who did this. The base is sealed, it has to be someone inside."

Willows took another step. "Cara's awake and she's loose. A guard and Dr. James are dead, his assistant is unconscious."

"Oh god." Buffy sat down hard.

"We'll find her, I promise." Willow was at her side instantly, wrapping her arms around Buffy's shoulders.

Sam Finn stepped out of her husband's private office, her voice trembling with fear and her hands flat against her swollen belly, "Riley? My water broke."

Angel watched, oddly detached, as looks flew across the room faster than anyone could respond. The group swayed and buckled around him and suddenly the noise was deafening in his ears. He fell back and found a chair he could hold on to, barely able to understand the words racing around his head. Even the familiar faces of his friends were unrecognizable in the chaos. This hadn't been the plan. They should have been safe here away from the demons on the surface. Instead they had simply found demons of another kind. For some reason his focus landed on Riley and he watched the man with bittersweet understanding. Pure, unadulterated fear of loosing his unborn child and his wife. It was beyond reason or rationality and suddenly Angel knew that their group of warriors was going to rip itself into pieces sooner rather than later. The demons had won the first battle without throwing a single punch.

"You're the one who told me what's out there! Don't you remember?" Buffy's shout rose above the cacophony.

"She'll die, Buffy!"

"We have an entire medical wing."

"Dr. James is dead! No one else has the training." Riley was rapidly approaching the end of his rope. "I have to, Buffy. Just understand that I have to. I can't lose her."

Buffy stared at him, unflinching and immovable, and gradually the rest of the room fell silent around her. Slowly, she looked at each of the expectant faces and finally her eyes fell on Angel. Her shoulders squared and her chin rose almost imperceptibly but he could see the fire in her eyes. "Everyone who hasn't been with either me or Angel from the very beginning, please leave. This is our fight. Please let us do our jobs."

"Buffy." Riley began.

"You too, Riley. Take care of Sam. We'll think of something, I promise."

"Hurry," he said curtly before turning to leave.

Angel watched as people slowly filed out of the room, Riley holding tightly onto his wife as they left. The door closed behind the last man and those that remained kept quiet. It felt oddly familiar to have the old gang in the same room again. He had to look twice when he realized he was staring at Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. No one had even told him what had happened, he shouldn't be surprised that he hadn't known the Watcher was back from the dead. They had probably just forgotten that he would want to know. He pulled away from the group, finding it difficult to breathe with all the people around him. No one seemed to notice that he was no longer a vampire. Could they even tell the difference?

"Sam could die if she stays here and she doesn't have a lot of time." Buffy's voice was clear and firm. "Riley's right, we can't just let her die. But once we open the base, there's no telling what will happen. We may loose everyone who walks out that door. And we may loose everyone without ever opening the door. These aren't easy choices."

"We can find Cara and stop her." Giles looked as though he'd aged ten years in the past hour.

"That won't save Sam, not now. The best idea I have is to divide and conquer. Some of us will go after Cara and some of us will get Sam to the helicopter pad and out of Sunnydale. We can get air support but even then, there are just too many of them."

"I'll go." Spike stepped forward. "I'll get her there."

"Let me go with him." Faith chimed in immediately.

"No. You're too important to risk now. I'm sorry but that's the way it is." Buffy tone allowed no argument. "Spike and I will go with Riley and Sam. We'll take a bare bones hunting squad. The smaller the group, the faster we can move. Faith and Willow, you find Cara. Rip her out of whatever hole she's hiding in. I don't care if you bring her back dead or alive. We'll need guns at our back, someone to coordinate defense at the door. While it's open the demons are bound to attack. Gunn, that's you."

"What about the rest of us?" Xander asked.

"Xander, finish getting everyone settled in. Leia and Jane. Anyone who isn't armed needs to be, take care of that." She threw another glance around the room. "Angel, how are you feeling?"

"I can help." He answered ambiguously, unwilling to broach the subject of his sudden humanity.

"I want you at the door in case things go bad. You too, Gwen, we can use your hands. Anyone else looking for something to do?"

Wesley raised his hand half way, "I'm assuming I'll be with Mr. Giles."

"Good, you two keep things sane around here while I'm gone." Buffy checked her watch before nodding to the group. "The helicopter can be here in fifteen minutes, let's be ready in ten."

* * *

Spike thought it couldn't possibly get worse. He knew better than to believe it but his slightly skewed version of optimism always managed to slip in and convince him that, yes, this was the dregs of the darkness. It would be immediately followed by something impossibly worse but for a tiny instant, he had his feet firmly planted on as bad as it gets.

He tried not to look at Faith as she helped him into a Kevlar vest, showing him how to properly adjust the straps. Then there was a utility belt with a pistol, knife, and extra clips. Wooden core bullets and yes, he knew how to fire a gun. He loved her all the more for worrying in her own, brusque way. There was a twinge of guilt as he explained that he had promised Riley to look out for Buffy but without explaining why. That little detail just wouldn't shake off his tongue and he finally settled for wrapping her tightly against his chest and promising to come back to her.

"A few demons can't make me miss the rest of your life, luv." He whispered against her hair.

She nestled against him with sudden tenderness. "No fancy stuff. Just get them to the chopper and get gone."

"Don't need to tell me twice." He brushed a kiss against her forehead and lifted her chin. "You be careful tracking Cara down. Shoot first, ask questions later."

"Count on it."

"I love you." Spike tried to keep his voice light and failed. He honestly didn't know if he would make it back to her.

"Don't even think that way. I'm not going to lose you now, we've been through enough hell." She kissed him fervently, pulling away to give him a playful wink. "And I will kick your ass if I end up a single mom."

"Yes, ma'am." With a half serious salute, he finished buckling up his gear and rolled his shoulders to loosen the joints. Buffy was already in full gear, waiting inside the main cargo door with the others. Sam Finn was silent, her face completely devoid of anything but pain. Beside her, Riley was holding their son Aaron tightly in his arms. Spike knew he'd wanted to get Sam and Aaron out of the base before sunset and could see the guilt of having failed to do so in the man's eyes. Best laid plans. The dozen Marines who would be part of the group waited in tense anticipation, most of them fresh from the squads that had come in from around the world and all of them the best of their units.

"Okay." Buffy adjusted her crossbow one more time and nodded to Gunn. "The helicopter is two hundred yards straight ahead. Stick close and stay together. You guys on the door, make sure nothing gets inside."

"We got your back." Gunn shouldered an impressive assault rifle, freeing his hand to reach for the door controls.

"Ready. Now."

Spike tightened his grip on the modified staff he'd chosen as an extra weapon. Carved to a point at both ends and soaked in holy water, it would be useful if he got surrounded. Given the numbers of vampires supposedly waiting for them, the odds were good he'd need it. Buffy would take point while Spike brought up the rear; Sam, Riley, and Aaron nestled as safely as possible within a circle of Marines. Riley stayed at Sam's side, his weapon in check and sweeping back and forth as he searched for any sign of the vampires. They moved as quickly as they could and Spike knew that each step must be agony for Sam Finn.

Just over fifty yards led them out of any cover they had had from trees or peripheral building structures supporting the base. The road veered left but they kept moving in a straight line onto a field of damp grass. In the distance, they could hear the helicopter approaching. Too low and there was the risk that the demons would try to bring it down, too high and it wouldn't be able to get to those on the ground in time. A delicate balance had to be maintained until the small group managed to reach the landing pad at the far end of the field. In the pale starlight, they could only hear the rustle of leaves and quiet growling that meant they weren't alone.

"Vampires. To the right. Ten…maybe twenty." Riley whispered. The flashlights attached to the men's guns illuminated the darting shadows swimming at the edges of their vision.

"Keep moving." Buffy urged.

Spike heard movement behind him and swung around, walking backwards to keep pace with the others. He saw flickers of movement, shifting patches of black on black. "We're surrounded."

"I know. Keep moving. We'll have to push through them." Buffy glanced back to check on Sam. "We need to go faster, can you?"

"I'll try," Sam whimpered.

"Do what you can."

The hair on the back of his neck was standing at attention and his skin began to crawl as the net of vampires closed in around them. Halfway there. He couldn't see far enough into the inky darkness to tell how deep the vampires were but if it was more than a handful, he knew they'd never make it to the landing pad. In the distance behind them, gunfire sounded into the night and the sense of urgency was ratcheted up a notch. He'd seen some pretty steep odds in his day but this was pure insanity.

"They're going to close in soon." Motioning to the men behind her, Buffy whispered over her shoulder. "Keep as tight as you can and keep moving toward the landing pad. We'll get there, don't give up."

Spike readied his staff, one eye on his little group and one eye on the vampires creeping closer. More gunfire sounded from the base, accompanied by the unearthly death shriek of a demon. He saw the first wave coming and knew that a group of the demons had managed to muster enough courage to charge forward after their prey. Bullets tore into them from the guns and dust exploded from Buffy's side as her crossbow worked its magic. He met the charge head on, swinging into the vampires with all his strength and scattering them. Dust flew as he whipped and spun, stabbing with the ends and using the broad length to shatter bones and drive the monsters back. Each step and each stroke brought dust, blood, and death. The Marines fought off attacks on the sides with gunfire and grenades. Spike saw one of them fall out of the corner of his eye, then another and another. Progress was slow but they crept steadily toward the landing pad, slashing and dusting their way through the fray. Almost there. The wind from the rotary blades brushed the back of his neck in a gentle kiss.

"Riley!" Sam's terrified cry rose over the snarling vampires.

He spun around to see Riley tumble to the grass, his young son rolling from his arms and suddenly exposed through a gap in the decreasing number of men. Riley's leg had been slashed, blood gushing from a wound on his calf. Sam managed to pull his gun around and fired into the demons rushing toward them, screaming for her son to get down on the ground.

"Buffy!" Spike only managed to shout her name before he had too many vampires around him to worry about.

"Keep moving!" Riley's agonized yell was barely audible amidst the growls and screeching around them.

A long, reptilian shape caught Spike's attention out of the corner of his eye. A slender tail with razor barbs at the end that were dripping with what looked like blood. Wrestling his way through a pack of vampires, he tried to engage the demon but it just slipped further into the black. Rather than let it draw him further away from the group, he cleared a space around him and hurried back.

"Watch out for the guy with the tail. Nasty lookin' bastard."

"Noticed." Riley grimaced. Sam helped him to his feet and he was trying not to lean on her while not actually being able to stand on his own. Aaron was silently terrified, eyes wide and unblinking, staring into the carnage around him.

Spike caught the look on Buffy's face and knew things had just taken their proverbial turn to the worse. They couldn't make it to the landing pad with only a handful of people able to fight. The humans were wounded and tiring quickly under the constant onslaught. He handed Sam the pistol from his belt without needing to say anything and setting his jaw grimly, he turned back to the fight. They continued their inch-by-inch progress. Riley, Sam, and the remaining Marines managed to keep their flanks just clear enough while Buffy drove ahead through the masses and Spike kept the monsters off their backs. It was getting tighter and harder to move, Spike nearly sliced Riley in two when a vampire landed a lucky punch to his jaw. Two more men fell and were snatched away before they could even scream. He forced all other thoughts from his mind, focusing only the fight and staying alive. Just stay alive.

At some point he heard gunfire and registered that it was much closer than it should have been. The roar of a helicopter swooping overhead nearly deafened him, bullets spraying into the army of vampires around them. Fire exploded less than fifty feet away and he could smell napalm. Air support had arrived. Even with guns blazing fire above them, the demons just seemed to keep coming. The dust was nearly an inch deep on the grass.

He saw the snake-like demon slither back into view and swung around to block the barbed tail with his staff before it shredded him to ribbons. Something hit him hard from behind and he stumbled down onto the grass. Driving one end of the staff into the ground, he used it as leverage to push himself back up through claws and fists, screaming into the hoard as he threw them off. They were all around him, cutting him off from the others and effectively leaving Sam and Riley open to attack. Sweat poured down his face and he redoubled his efforts to get back to them. Bullets tore up the grass around him, forcing him to duck to keep from behind caught in the rain of gunfire. His head down, he suddenly felt the telltale prick of electricity that meant a Slayer was nearby. Another Slayer. Frantically, he cut through the vampires, tossing them away with each stroke of his staff. Where was she?

"Faith!" He shouted, scanning the twisting shadows for any sign of her. Why hadn't she waited inside? Why had she come after him?

"Spike!" Buffy sounded desperate. They were caught in a dead stand still, barely holding back the vampires bearing down on them.

He wasn't sure what he saw first, the fire or the cloud of dust that seemed to rip through the vampires like a tornado. A clearing appeared in the masses of demons, like the eye of a hurricane, and there she was. She moved with savage efficiency, cutting and slicing with a thin blade in one hand; the flamethrower in the other hand side springing to life periodically to clear a path. When she was close enough for him to see her face, he found nothing but death in her eyes. Steel flashed and an unlucky demon's head tumbled away from its body. Her boot struck out and kicked the oozing corpse off of one of the men; she hauled the wounded man to his feet with one hand and dragged him back to the group.

"Move!" Cara snarled.

Around the group lit up in a blaze of fire and they lurched forward haltingly. Still fighting anything that came within range of his staff, he watched her come around to the side of their faltering group, pick up Aaron, and swing him onto her back. Fire belched out to the side and front. Ten more feet inched by and the landing pad came into view. Wiping sweat out of his eyes, he threw himself back into the fight with renewed hope.

It felt like hours before his feet landed on the concrete of the pad and he noticed the wind beating down on him furiously. He shoved back at the monsters, forming one link of a defensive ring to protect the Finns as they were carried up into the helicopter one at a time. Only five of the Marines still remained. Finally, the wind began to die down and the roar of the engine faded. The other helicopters continued to make passes over the swarm of demons, firing and bombing as much as they could. Spike made eye contact with Buffy over his shoulder and saw blood dripping down the side of her face.

"We have to get back!" He shouted.

"We run! Fast as we can!"

Before he could take the first step, Cara spun past him with her flamethrower spitting out fire in a circle around them, forcing the demons to retreat several yards and giving them a few moments of rest. She unhooked the weapon and handed it to Buffy.

"There's enough to get you back, use it to clear a path."

Buffy visibly struggled to contain her fury but took the straps and slipped them over her shoulders. "If you make back alive, I will kill you."

"I didn't kill Dawn." Cara inspected the blade in her hand before wiping it clean against the dark fatigues she wore.

"What?"

She flexed her wrist in anticipation, spinning the weapon in figure eight patterns. "Protect Faith and the baby. They'll come after Spike because they don't what the baby means yet. But they will soon and then they'll kill you all. They'll bury this whole town. Demon, human, every blade of grass. It won't matter once they realize they've lost." Cara's gaze was solely on Buffy.

"What are you talking about?" Spike shifted uneasily, the circle of vampires was beginning to close again.

A dozen emotions flashed across Buffy's face as she struggled with an internal war as brutal as the one around them. "And you?"

Cara turned her attention back to the howling demons, "This is where I end. They'll split off and focus on me. I'm the weakest. It should give you enough of an advantage."

"Cara." Buffy's voice was surprisingly gentle.

"If we stick together," Spike tried to interrupt but stopped when he saw the unexpected look of peace on Cara's face.

"This is my purpose. This is what I was born to do." There was no fear or regret in her voice.

Buffy took a deep breath and wiped at the blood on her forehead. "Then let's make sure you don't die for nothing."

Spike took point, carving a tunnel through the monsters with the sound of fire crackling on either side as Buffy danced back and forth spraying death. They moved fast without anything to worry about but their own lives, slashing their way through without deliberately trying to kill anything. At some point he felt Cara slipping further away and heard the howling triumph of a demon when it brought her down. Cold shivers raced down his spine and the electric buzz of the third Slayer disappeared completely. A sliver of light appeared through the trees and gave them their first glimpse of safety; he tore into the vampires with a ferocity born of pure adrenaline. He didn't realize that they'd made it back to the base until he stumbled into bright lights and heard Faith's voice over the sound of his pounding heart. Collapsing onto the ground, his lungs burned and his hands were frozen around the staff, requiring Faith's help to pry them away from the wood.

"I felt her die." He winced, trying to work the blood back into his fingers.

Buffy was guarded as she surveyed the curious faces around them, mentally accounting for the men who hadn't returned and measuring the immeasurable cost of human life. "Riley, Sam, and Aaron are safe. Cara's dead."

"How?" Gunn was shocked. "I know she didn't get past us."

"Probably climbed up through one of the look outs, when we opened the door it relaxed the lock down. It doesn't matter now."

Silence settled over the group as they took in the information and slowly began to relax. The first crisis was behind them. Medics quietly produced aid kits and began bandaging injuries the group had sustained during their run. There was too much to say and no words that fit. Gradually they filtered away from the door, ignoring the muffled howling from outside. Returning to the Command Center, the atmosphere was somber and awkwardly aware that their commander was absent with the longest part of night still ahead.

"Spike, Faith." Buffy spoke up, running her fingers over the bandage on her forehead. "Willow…I need you. Angel, Xander, Giles. Everyone else please leave."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Wesley looked alarmed at the prospect of leaving. "Shouldn't the rest of us be in on any planning sessions?"

"Watcher's right. Don't want to be left out of the loop if it's the same to you." Gunn agreed with a reluctant glance at Wesley.

"We're not planning anything other than Dawn's funeral. You're welcome back when we get to Cordelia's. Now please leave." Buffy's voice was icy.

Spike could tell that none of the Los Angeles gang was particularly happy about the arrangement but they grudgingly left the room and the rest of them gathered into a circle around the large table of maps. He dug into his pocket for the token and set it down gently.

"What's that?" Buffy frowned.

"Might be our ticket out, opens a portal to somewhere safer than here. Finn said it was a worst-case scenario precaution. But it only works above ground so it'd be another slash and burn."

"Good." Buffy bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "We can use that."

"What you got in mind, B?" Faith settled into a chair.

"We're not safe here. Not even here. Cara didn't kill Dawn, there's someone else." Buffy's eyes were on the table between then, her fingers tapping lightly on one of the maps as she spoke. "And it's just a matter of time before whoever it was comes after the rest of us. That's why only you guys are here. I know I can trust all of you. No one else can know anything that goes on in this room."

"You can trust my friends," Angel promised. "And you know Wesley."

"I want to, I do, but someone stabbed us in the back and I'm all out of trust."

Spike wondered when the façade of strength that Buffy was putting out there for everyone to see would finally wane and fall. Or maybe this really was Buffy. The Buffy that no one in that room had ever seen. Woman and Slayer melded together and forged into something stronger than the two could be separately. He caught a meaningful look exchanged between Buffy and Faith. He hadn't the slightest clue what it meant but knew that more than just eye contact had passed between the two.

"So we fight our way out, make a run for it." Xander proposed. "Riley's out there with the entire US military, they can clear a path. And we've got a hundred strapping marines right here trained to kill demons."

Buffy shook her head, "Riley will do what can from outside Sunnydale to help but I've seen what's out there and we can't fight all of them even with every man here. Even if we do survive, at what cost? How many people will die to keep us alive?"

"Buffy?" Giles' brow furrowed and there was an expression halfway between suspicion and fear on his face. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

Buffy took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "The only way those demons leave is if they think all three Slayers are dead. One down, two to go. If we fight, we lose everyone, so we get out the only way we can. We die."


	50. Found

**Note:** I really bit off more than I could chew with Part 3 and there are some things that I wanted to do that just didn't work. Hopefully, they didn't detract too much from the overall fic and hopefully the ending will be satisfying for everyone who has stuck with this monster. J Thanks for reading and for all the support and kind words. You have been wonderful and more appreciated than I have words for. Happy ficcing!

**Found **

The full power of the overhead lights transformed the surgery bay from nightmarish to surreal. Someone had draped a lab coat over the bodies of Dr. James and the Marine, hiding them from view until they could be moved to cold storage. Leather restraints hung slack from the surgery table, adding to the B-movie ambience and leaving another piece of the puzzle for Faith to chew on. It was a hunch that had brought her to the room where Cara had escaped. A hunch and something Buffy had said without speaking. A feeling of solidarity and trust between Slayers. Something that, as ludicrous as it sounded in words or on paper, meant that they needed to understand what Cara had done. There were hidden agendas running somewhere in the background and she had an unshakable sense that this room could lead her to them.

She pulled the fabric away from the guard's body and frowned at the syringe sticking out of his chest. A quick glance around the room found more syringes on the countertop. Sifting through them, she matched them to the labels inside the medkit where they had been stored. Adrenaline, painkillers. A lot of painkillers. Something Cara would have needed if she'd known there was a fight coming. She glanced back at the restraints. Willow's girlfriend was still shaken and in shock, barely able to speak in complete sentences, let alone tell them what had happened. The lab technician who had accompanied Dr. James was still down for the count, which left only the room and the dead bodies as witnesses.

Blood spatter on the wall. Too far to be from the bullet wound in the doctor's chest and the Marine wasn't cut. Cara's blood then. She checked the man's fists. Bruised and red with blood that wasn't his. His gun was on the ground beside him. Why hit her enough to do that much damage and not shoot her? It didn't make sense and it certainly wasn't in the training manual.

"Any clues?" Xander stepped through the door with a grimace.

"Lot of rage." Faith motioned to the blood spatter and the Marine's body. "He hit her. Dozen times maybe. That's personal."

Xander knelt down and picked up the discarded ID tags. "First edition tags. He was here when she tore the place up." He tipped his head to the side, noticing that the Marine had been stripped of his uniform. "That's how we missed her, she was wearing his clothes."

"Hiding in plain sight." She wondered how anyone with those burns hadn't stood out from the crowd even with the uniform. "Something doesn't add up."

"Slayer sense tingling?"

"Big time." Faith tried to recreate the scene in her mind, imagining what might have happened. "She shot herself full of painkillers."

"Combat cocktails." Nodding with understanding, he stood up and stepped carefully over the bodies to inspect the rest of the room. He gave a low whistle as he counted the empty syringes.

"Plus the one sticking out of the guy's chest."

"Never knew she was a junkie." His eyes strayed to the far wall. "Hey, Faith. What does that look like to you?"

Faith followed his gaze. "Bullet holes."

"Ricochet." He motioned to dings in the heavy metal struts that crossed the ceiling. "Came at her firing?"

"Probably." She took a closer look at the gun and found more blood, "and he hit her with more than his fists."

"Maybe the good doctor forgot to hit the deck." Xander crouched down to examine the doctor's body. "The lab lackey has a nice boot print shaped bruise on his chest, landed over there. That's our Slayer's work."

"But she didn't kill him." Faith stood where she figured Cara must have been hiding. "She was behind them, she could have killed all three without breaking a nail. Knocks one out…guard gets off a shot that kills the doc. And she lets him hit her."

"She was pretty torn up before that, Faith. Not really in prime fighting condition."

"No one pumps that much adrenaline into their system and then just takes it." Faith shook her head, "I checked the camera feed. It was relaying but not recording. Guess they forgot to hit the switch."

"Forgot?"

"That's what I said," Faith said dryly. "By the time someone looked at the monitor, there were bodies. That's when they hit the alarm."

"Well," Xander fiddled with the buckle on one of the restraints, checking the release mechanism. "She had more than a few enemies here. Not out of the question that some of them wanted a little payback."

"But why wait? Why not shut off the camera and get to it?"

"Waited for the base to lock down? I mean, what're you gonna do? Court marshal someone who might die tomorrow? Why not wait until everyone's attention is anywhere but here?"

"Which it was. With Cordy and Dawn…" she trailed off, unable to form the words.

"Not to mention Sam's rather untimely going into labor."

"But how could they have known either of those were going to happen?"

"True. Sam was due any day." He raked his fingers through his hair, his voice carefully neutral despite the grief in his eyes. "I've searched my brain for some reason why anyone would want Cordy and Dawn out of the way. The guys loved Dawn, she's everyone's little sister. And no one even knew Cordy, so they wouldn't want to kill her. Not in the first twenty-four hours at least. Given another day of her company and maybe."

"Someone's playing us. Someone set this up, I can feel it."

"But who?" He shrugged and stepped carefully back over the bodies. "There are a lot of people who wanted Cara dead and the doctor was probably collateral damage."

"Maybe." Faith turned the puzzle over in her head. "Anyone wanting Cara dead probably wouldn't be too happy about the idea of baby Caras."

"So they plan to bump her off before they can take out the ovaries. Wait for the doctor to check on her but Cara's already awake and bam, it all goes sideways."

"Already awake?" She repeated.

"Yeah. Big miscommunication there. Guess the Buffster never mentioned that Angel snacked on her. Everyone here thought she was drugged and out for the night." Xander stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Gotta love the Scoobies but sometimes we really aren't good with the words."

"She went after Angel, right?"

"According to tall and broody himself…who is acting mighty strange, if I do say so myself."

"And he bit her. Then everyone thought she was drugged." Faith repeated tiredly, rubbing her forehead. "It doesn't track. None of this does. If she wasn't drugged, why not bust out and just kill the guard? Why wait? Why did everyone fucking wait?"

"Well, no point in setting the trap off early, I guess. We get wind that she's mobile and she ends up Slayer shish kabob. Bides her time, shoots enough morphine to kill an elephant, let alone the pain, and it's welcome to my parlor said the spider to the tasty treats in white lab coats and camouflage."

"Unless," Faith bent down to replace the lab coat over the guard's body. "Unless things went down exactly how they were supposed to."

"Now I'm the thing not tracking." He gave her a quizzical look as he followed her out of the surgery bay.

"Three men, all of whom know exactly what they're dealing with and one who's got a big hate on for Cara, enter a room and find the Slayer not where they left her."

"With you so far."

"And they get as far as the table, letting Cara to get behind them."

Xander blinked, realization dawning. "Smart thing would be to back out and seal the room. I see an empty table where there should have been Slayer? Run like hell."

"So there's someone else strapped to the table."

"Leia." He paled at the idea.

"Right. Which means she went in before the Doc. So, did naked guy let her in? Not likely that someone who was here when Cara massacred half the base is going to let a civilian anywhere near her."

"You're right." Xander scratched his head. "It doesn't make sense."

"And she was in there long enough for Cara to strap her down. How did Cara slip the restraints in the first place?"

"Houdini reincarnated?"

Faith glanced down the hallway to make sure no ears were listening. "Maybe, chains don't really seem to work on her. So Leia's in there, face bruised up, and Cara's slipped the leash. Still doesn't make sense."

"Maybe Leia went in on her own two feet. Distracted the guard, maybe he was down the hall or not looking."

"Would she really do that? Knowing how dangerous Cara was?"

"Granted, people don't usually enjoy being in the same room with serial killers. It'd be like letting Hannibal Lector out of the cage. In a locked room. Just the two of you. She didn't strike me as suicidal." He frowned as another possibility occurred to him, "Do you think she was planning on killing Cara herself? The lawyer type people did offer her a deal."

"Either that or the dead guard was in on it and forced Leia in that room. Maybe hoping Cara would kill her, maybe just getting her out of the way. I'm pretty sure that Cara leaving that room alive was the last thing he wanted." Faith paused a junction in the hallways. "Were they waiting for Dawn and Cordy to get killed or for Riley and Sam to leave the base?"

"This sounds like a good place to apply that scientific razor of logic and deduction. There's no way anyone could have known Sam was going to go into labor."

"Then what happened in that room had something to do with Cordy and Dawn." They stood for several moments at the fork in the corridor, staring at each other until Faith sighed and shook her head. "This is making my brain hurt."

Xander nodded in agreement. "Should we consult General Buffy about our cockamamie theories?"

"Not sure it changes anything." Faith shrugged. "Just means her plan makes more sense. We're sitting targets now, at least topside we might have a fighting chance."

"Um, we're talking about the plan where you die? Can I just say for the record that I'm not comfortable with this?"

Faith kept her mouth shut, instinctively knowing the truth about Buffy's plan from the glint of determination she'd seen in the Slayer's eyes. The idea itself felt so strange that she couldn't wrap her mind around it; couldn't grapple and come to grips with it. Two more Slayers had to die for the others to live and for the demons to think that victory was theirs. It was a sleight of hand with an inevitably violent and gruesome ending. Her stomach churned and she couldn't tell if it was the usual nausea or knowing exactly what would happen. She wanted her survival instinct to kick in and tell her that it was okay to even consider, that she would eventually be able to forgive herself. She started down the hallway without actually knowing where she was going. Just moving because it was better than standing still. Xander padded beside her quietly, either assuming that she was pondering her mortality or lost in his own serious thoughts.

They found Buffy and Willow peering into a storage closet. A glance through the doorway revealed too much blood and Faith winced at the sudden knowledge of exactly where Cordy and Dawn had died. Willow gave them a little wave, her brow lined with concentration and concern. Buffy's face was impassive, arms folded and eyes solidly locked onto the bloody floor.

"Did you find anything?" she asked without looking up.

"We have a few theories." Xander reached out to brush his fingers over Willow's shoulder, giving her a comforting smile. "You guys have any luck?"

Buffy nodded slowly, "Dawn was shot in the back, Cordy was facing the killer. From the way she was holding her, I think Dawn was shot first and Cordy was trying to stop the bleeding."

"Blood on the wall." Willow waved down the hall. "Either dragged or forced into the storage room."

"Ballsy, doing it out here. Someone coulda seen it. Didn't anyone hear anything?" Faith examined the blood pattern on the wall.

"Probably used a silencer, we only have a few hundred of them in any given direction. And gunshots aren't exactly uncommon here, if it was muffled no one would have given it a second thought." Buffy crouched down to get a new perspective on the scene. "Anything Will?"

"It's the lack of that's telling." Willow shook her head with a familiar puzzled expression on her face. "This room, the whole hallway, should reek with death and it doesn't. All I feel here is life. As if all the death and violence were washed away. I'm not even picking up any fear and there should have been fear. If Cordy, if she saw…there should at least be fear."

"Any idea why?"

"Something happened here, Buffy. Something mystical. And it was big." Willow motioned to the boxes of supplies that had fallen from the shelves. "It looks like an earthquake."

"We didn't feel anything." Xander leaned into the closet, careful not to step in any of the blood. "An earthquake localized to this closet? Weirder things have happened. Weirder things have happened, right?"

Buffy frowned, "We're done here. I'll get someone to clean up the blood."

"Buff?"

"Someone shot them, someone who snuck up behind them like a damn coward." She glared at the blood stained wall with terrifying fervor. "Less than fifty feet from the library, where Dawn was, and they were headed west toward the Command Center. Where I told her to be."

"It's not your fault, Buffy." Willow said gently.

"I know. Someone killed them before they could get to me and that usually happens when people have information I need." Steel in her eyes, Buffy started toward the library.

"Oh, the tangled webs we weave," Xander chimed, falling in line as the group entered the research unit. "Where do we start?"

"Giles had Dawn on the computers looking up references." Buffy surveyed the room with narrowed eyes. "There. Two chairs pushed away, books open. Someone left in a hurry." They were careful not to disturb anything, tipping their heads to the side to read one of the books. Or at least stare at the pretty symbols.

"It's Sumerian." Willow's voice faltered and she looked away. "We should ask Giles."

"He's around here somewhere." Buffy stroked the book gently, almost lovingly. "Dawn can read Sumerian."

"This doesn't belong here. No Genesis stamp." Xander flipped through the binder across the table. "In fact, look at this, Wolfram and Hart letterhead."

"Cordelia brought it with her. A reference key, something to do with Angel." Willow caught sight of Giles, his nose in a pile of leather bindings across the room, and scooped up the book. "I'll ask Giles what's in this."

Buffy took the binder from Xander and began to skim through it. "It's about a prophecy. A vampire with a soul. This is that prophecy about Angel, where he becomes human or something."

"Didn't Spike's big return to the land of the living scratch that out?"

Faith winced, knowing that Xander was actually trying to be delicate about it. "Well, Spike's not exactly human. I mean, he's more like us. Like a Slayer."

"But not a Slayer." Buffy kept reading, her voice distant. Her fingers absently traced over the bandage covering one of the wounds she'd gotten during her time outside the base. "We're dark. Tainted."

"Are we back to that? Look, there's nothing evil about you. At least, now there isn't. Got all that evil out of your system years ago." Xander assured them both.

Faith noticed that Buffy's gaze had moved to her stomach and self-consciously adjusted her t-shirt as though trying to cover up any evidence of the baby inside. It was unnerving.

"Who knows you're pregnant?" Buffy kept her voice soft, almost too low to hear.

"Damn near everyone as far as I can tell."

"Cara said they'd come after Spike and then you. That they'd destroy this whole town."

"The proverbial They? Or are we talking a They that we have a face for?" Xander's eyebrows rose when Buffy quietly tapped the logo on the binder. "Guess Angel brought us some new enemies then. Demon potluck, what else do you bring to a party on the Hellmouth?"

"They bugged my house, they asked Leia to kill Cara, and they've been pulling strings we don't even know about." Buffy sighed wearily.

"The Cara thing really blew up in their faces." Xander rocked back on his heels. "Faith and I couldn't figure out why Leia was anywhere near our favorite psycho killer. We did remember to tell her about the psycho killer part, right? That there was no way she would have a snowball's chance against her, you know, if she tried."

"She knew." Buffy shook her head and shut the binder with a snap. "I mean, I think she knew. Willow would have told her, right? Of course Willow would have told her. That's not something you don't tell someone."

"Is she talking yet?" Faith changed the subject quickly. "It would help. Get her version of the story."

"Willow gave her some sedatives to knock her out. She was pretty much freaking."

"Wouldn't you be?" Xander shuddered. "Cara was scary enough but to actually be there and watch her kill people? That's scarred for life material."

"Guys!" Willow was hurrying toward them, her eyes flashing with excitement. "This book? It's about ancient races. Not really demons, demon human hybrids. These are called Purifiers." She pointed to the picture of the creature in long robes. "And apparently, they're big on the glowing."

"Like Cordy?" Xander took a closer look.

"Dawn must have figured out what she was. Is that important enough to kill them? If Cordy was some sort of demon Purifier thing, wouldn't she already know that?" Buffy picked up the binder with one hand as she moved away from the table.

"I kinda had the impression they'd never really found out what she was but you're right, it's hardly breaking news worthy of double homicide." Willow sighed with frustration. "Nancy Drew never had cases like this. Hers were all easy and straightforward, and she never had to deal with demons."

"Faith?" Buffy checked her watch, waiting for some unknown timetable to advance. "Any idea where that husband of yours is?"

"I think he wanted to check the lookouts." Faith could only give a vague answer. Spike hadn't seemed upset when Buffy had unveiled the plan of dying. In fact, he hadn't said a word as he'd gotten up from the table and walked out of the room. With Spike, that usually meant he was too furious to speak and once he'd worked it out in his own head he would come find her.

"You two should get some rest. We should be out of here the second the sun comes up, if we can stay alive until then." She swiveled her head in a slow circle, grimly suspecting malice from the library itself. "It's going to be a long night."

Conversation over for the time being, the group split into factions with Buffy and Willow retreating to the far corner of the library and Xander joining Giles behind the monstrous pile of books. Faith watched them for a few seconds before leaving the library to find Spike and do what she was told. She was dead on her feet anyway and could use some sleep. Rubbing her arms did little to warm her skin from the cold, unnatural silence that had settled into the base; skin prickling along the back of her neck at every sound and hint of movement around her. Which hand held the gun that had cut down Cordy and Dawn? Behind whose face was the traitor lurking? They'd gone to ground just trying to stay safe and had found themselves in the jaws of something they didn't know how to fight.

Wesley rounded the corner a beat ahead of her and gave her a small nod in greeting. "Faith. Any progress?"

"A little." She hoped that he couldn't hear the guilt in her voice, unable to trust anyone and having to continuously lie was proving easier said than done. "Too bad it's not TV. Catch the killer in less than an hour, guaranteed and with time for commercials."

"Yes. Reality is disappointing that way." He smiled. "How are you holding up?"

"Five by five." The familiar phrase felt awkward and dry on her tongue. "A little stir crazy being cooped up like this, the usual."

"Perhaps some sparring would help? I haven't completely lost my skills at training a Slayer."

Faith snorted a laugh, "As considerable as those talents were, that wouldn't be much of a loss." She winced when his face fell and hurried to sooth the hurt of her words. "Sorry, Wes. You did real well with Cara. Not counting the part where she killed a bunch of people."

"Yes, well, she was a lost cause from the very beginning. But one never gives up, I suppose."

The hair on the back of her neck rose at the unexpected dismissal but she shook it off and tried to smile. Paranoia wouldn't get them anywhere if it led to doubting the only people they could trust. "I'm going to catch some shut eye. B's got something cooking under all that blonde. Might need the rest yourself." The twinge of guilt she felt for not being able to tell him more was quickly overpowered by Buffy's insistence on silence and her own jittery nerves.

"Duly noted." His smile tightened, drawing his lips into a thin line.

"Wish I could chat but I need to find Spike and spend a little quality time, you know."

"Of course."

Faith hurried away, unable to brush off the creeping sensation wriggling up her spine and making her that much more anxious to find the safety of Spike's arms. Halfway down the hallway she realized that she had been holding her hands protectively over her stomach and stuffed them into her pockets with embarrassment. Now was no time to turn into an overprotective mother who jumped at shadows and would be next to useless in a fight. She needed a clear mind and all wits about her if she was going to help Buffy put her insane plan into motion.

She found Spike in the lookout that had a clear view of Sunnydale High School and, more importantly, the Hellmouth. His face was drawn with concentration, eyes fixed on the darkness around them and the dancing lights that shouldn't have been part of the picture. A subtle relaxation in his shoulders meant that he'd sensed her and brought a smile to her lips. She reached out to touch his back with the tips of her fingers, letting him know she was there and glad to see him, to stare out into the night beside him.

"I know there's more to this plan than you and Buffy dying," he said softly. "You don't have to tell me. Just let me know what I can do to help."

"Thank you." She leaned against him, more relieved than she could possibly describe. Lying to him had been the one thing she had dreaded the most.

"Activity at the high school." Spike nodded in the general direction. "Not sure what's goin' on."

"Probably trying to open the Hellmouth. Seems someone's trying to do that every other Tuesday."

"Yeah." He twisted to the side and pulled her against his chest, caressing her hair softly. "Come to call me for another group meeting?"

"No." She smiled up at him. "I'm here to ask you to come to bed. Nothing's going down until morning so we might as well get some sleep."

"Sleep?" He raised one eyebrow suggestively.

"That too."

* * *

The room was dark when Buffy keyed in her entry code and the door slid open. She hesitated for a moment before stepping through the doorway and letting it slide closed behind her. Unsure if she should reach for the light switch, she remained in darkness and tried to ignore the pounding of her heart. Fabric rustled in the direction of the bunk and suddenly she wasn't sure if she was doing the right thing.

"Buffy?" Angel's voice was thick and groggy. "What are you doing here?" A dim light flickered to life and illuminated his bunk. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair tousled by tossing and turning in the narrow bed.

She placed the binder softly on the footlocker that served as a coffee table and took a seat at the end of the bed. Staring at her shoes was easier than meeting his gaze. How was she supposed to feel?

"Buffy?" His voice was concerned.

"When were you going to tell me?" She kept her eyes on her toes.

"Tell you what?"

Without speaking, she reached toward him and placed her hand against his bare arm. He flinched beneath her touch. The burned skin had turned smooth, only angry red left as a reminder that he'd nearly lost his life. It would heal and he would be the same Angel once again. Almost. Gathering her courage, she looked up and met his eyes, "you're warm."

"It's the burns," he whispered.

"Is it? Tell me that's all it is because if it's not then I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"How did you know?"

"I'm not sure. Something Willow said and then I found that." She motioned to the binder.

His eyes fell and he pulled away from her touch, climbing out of the bunk and pacing agitatedly across the room. "You can't count me out, Buffy. I can still be a part of this, I can still help."

"That wasn't what I meant." She folded her hands in her lap; afraid that if she moved too much everything would fall apart around her and take her with it. Take the fragile grip she had on the pain inside and set it loose just when she needed control.

"I'm sorry about the timing. I wish I could give it back." He raked his fingers through his hair. "I let you down."

"Angel."

"I can still fight."

She smiled up at him with a touch of sadness, "this is what you've always wanted, what you've worked so hard for. I'm happy for you."

He hesitated for a second before sitting down beside her and reaching for her hands, "this plan of yours. Tell me the truth, what's really going to happen?"

"I told you. The only way anyone else is going to survive is if two more Slayers die. The needs of the many."

"I don't believe you. You've got something else in mind, I know you." He searched her face for any sign of reassurance. "Tell me you have something else in mind."

"The time for Slayers is over, Angel. We're hardly what you'd call efficient. One Slayer against everything that's out there?" She shook her head but gave his hand a comforting squeeze. "It's okay. We all come with an expiration date and this is it."

"So you're just going to give up? Sacrifice yourself and Faith? What about the baby?"

She dropped her eyes before he saw the unspoken truth in them. "Faith and I understand the cost and we're willing to pay it."

"The rest of the world isn't willing to pay that price!"

"How can I say that my life is more valuable than anyone else's? Do you want to hear that I don't want to die? I don't." Tears pricked at her eyes and made her voice quiver. "There's so much I still want to do. But I'm a dead end, Angel. I can't have children and I don't have any family left."

"You have us."

"Ironic, isn't it?" Smiling through her tears, she leaned forward to rest her head on his shoulder. "You left because you couldn't give me a normal life. Kids, a husband who could marry me in a church in the daytime, and it turns out those things weren't meant for me anyway."

"Don't give up, Buffy. Please."

"I haven't given up." She lifted her head to look at him. "Don't you see? For the first time, everything is clear. Cara knew that she was going to die out there, knew that it was her time. And now I know what she felt. I'm not afraid, Angel."

"Buffy." He stroked her cheek gently.

"You think I'm doing this for the world? I'm not. I'm not that good of a person." Lacing her fingers through his, she leaned against him again. "I'm doing this so Xander can finally get married and Willow can finish her thesis. So that Giles can see England again. I'm doing this for you, Angel. You worked so hard and the least I can do is make sure you get the chance to grow old."

"I can't let you do this." His voice shook, breath warm against her hair and cheek.

"This is my purpose, this is what I was born to do." The repeated words echoed in the stillness of the room and she held on tightly, praying for the strength to do what she had to.

* * *

There was nothing unusual about Willow entering the morgue with her familiar half smile and look of concern, nothing at all unusual about asking the technician for a few minutes alone with whatever was on the slab. Except this time there were familiar faces lying in the stone coldness of death and she wasn't actually able to pull off even half of a smile. The legs of the stool scraped against the tile and she gingerly took a seat at the top of the table, reaching out to brush her hands ever so gently over Dawn's pale skin and brown hair.

"I never got to ask you what happened." The hair was still silky with the conditioner that Dawn used. "You changed. You were…bigger, somehow. Greater. There was something ageless in your eyes. I didn't have time to weasel it out of you." She glanced over at the equally still form of Cordelia. "Probably not how you wanted to go…in a storage closet with Cordelia. I've been there, I feel your pain."

The clock on the wall clicked with each long second passing by and after as many clicks as she could allow herself, she pulled away from Dawn and reached down for the duffle bag of supplies. Herbs, feathers, human hair, fresh blood, a totem or two. Just the necessities she would need for making the dead get up and walk again. Another glance at the watch. Night was slipping away from her and the spells she had to perform weren't easy. There was no room for mistakes now; she had to get it right the first time because there would be no second chance. Each second was borrowed as it was, on loan from the unknown killer in their midst. The first spell was the easiest and turned everyone's eyes away from the morgue. Nothing to see here but the dead; there was no reason to look for the witch inside spinning her web of deceit.

She snipped a lock of Dawn's hair and placed it in a bowl. Cordelia's snippet curled against the bottom of another bowl. Their blood was congealing, bodies stiffening, but she collected the few lazy drops she could and added that to their respective bowls. Candles, incense, powders spread across the floor to focus both her mind and the energy around her. She hoped that the powers she was calling wouldn't sense the fear that coated the back of her throat with a sour taste; that they would only feel her resolve and her determination. Before the trip to New Orleans, she wouldn't have dared this magic; wouldn't have believed it even possible to weave the complicated pattern that Buffy required. One last look at Dawn's calm face steadied her nerves rather than increasing her doubts and she took a deep breath.

"Forgive me, Dawnie."

In a half-hearted attempt to mimic the external world, the lights in the library had dimmed to a fraction of their strength and made the use of the table lamps necessary if one didn't wish to strain their eyes. Fred hadn't quite made the decision yet, her hand still beside the switch as she considered the options that lay before her. Most of the people she knew had stumbled off to bed and the staff had switched over to the night crew, the tenuous friends she had made now replaced by complete strangers. Her eyes were dry from too much crying and too many hours awake, she had to close them periodically just to keep reading. It reminded her of being cloistered away in the university library studying for final exams and even though she knew there wouldn't be a test in the morning, she was still terrified of putting her head down and being unprepared.

Rationally she knew that sleep was best, that she should follow the example of her friends and try pulling a blanket over her head in search of peace but she doubted it would ever come. She was too strung out, too raw from the past hours and days. Half of the notepad beside her had been used up with abstract equations, what she could remember from her work on the Hellmouth equations without having all of her notes. It kept her mind just occupied enough to prevent the unproductive spinning of worry and paranoia. A nerdy form of bravado that made her feel slightly safer even though it didn't prevent the nameless gunman from shooting her down at that very table. She gave the room another furtive glance, peering into the shadows and telling herself that any shapes she saw in the darkness were only figments of her imagination. What if there was more than one traitor inside Genesis? How many people had Wolfram and Hart managed to sink their claws into with offers of wealth and power?

Shivering a little at the thought, she pulled her books closer and switched on the table lamp. At least here she had something to take her mind off of the terrifying possibilities. Alone in a bunk trying to sleep would only drive her mad. Then again, the whole world had gone topsy-turvy to the point that she might get seasick from all the changing. Where was a girl supposed to plant her feet if the ground kept disappearing? Guiltily, she wondered if she dared wake up Wesley and ask if he wanted to sit with her. He seemed upset that he was being excluded from whatever Buffy was planning, probably afraid that people would treat him differently now that he had died and come back. She couldn't blame him, being slightly terrified of his possible fragility herself. Knowing he would hate being treated as though he was made of glass she simply kept her distance, afraid that she would offend him more with her hovering than her absence.

She sighed and rubbed her weary eyes. The black and white lines of the world had mixed and intermarried, smudged together by good and evil alike until there was nothing left but gray and she was drowning in it. In Gunn's distrust of no longer dead Wesley and now dead Cordelia. She winced a little, hurting from loss but beyond the point where she could distinguish who she was mourning for and why. The group was falling apart around her ears, with Angel hiding away in the darkness without a word of explanation and no Cordelia to drag him back to the living. No one else had ever been reach Angel the way she had. Even Lorne had been uncharacteristically grave, merely shaking his head when she had tried to coax him into a bit of research. Of course, he'd never really been a fan of musty old books as they occasionally sent the reader to places they didn't want to be. She wistfully imagined a book that would carry them all away to a place that would be safe and sound. A place where they could finally stop fighting, where they could rest. Maybe she was getting too old for a life of action and adventure.

"Fred?"

It was barely a whisper but the voice jerked her out of her thoughts with such force that she bumped the table and sent a pile of books tumbling to the floor. She sighed with relief when she saw that it was just Wesley. "Nearly gave me a heart attack, Wes. You shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

"I'm very sorry. May I?" He gestured to the empty chair beside her.

"Please. I was getting lonely here by myself and you know me, when I get lonely I tend to get a little crazy." She smoothed the top page of her notebook and began piling the fallen books on top. "Couldn't sleep either?"

"No. There has been far too much to think about." His eyes were casually scanning the titles of her books. "Dimensional energies?"

"Still working on those Hellmouth equations. It's probably not useful anymore but there's some really elegant mathematics embedded in the dimensional structure and I kinda have this theory that if I could find a way to match up the mystical with the physics, I might really be onto something. Could even get a couple papers out of it, you know, make a difference." She straightened the stack of books and then kept straightening them even after they were perfect, unsure of what she should say.

"You don't need to feel uncomfortable around me, Fred. I'm the same old Wesley." His smile was soft and encouraging.

"I know. It's just…you were dead. I had your blood on my hands." Slipping back into her seat, she fiddled with her pencil nervously. "This is gonna sound crazy but do you remember calling me? I mean, your cell phone called me and there was no one there when I picked up. So either you called me or Cara called me. She did take your phone. But if, if she hadn't…I wouldn't have gotten there for another hour."

"And you think that maybe she wanted to you to find me so that you could save me?" He placed his hand over hers and stilled the frantic twisting of the pencil in her fingers.

"I guess I just keep wanting to believe that she wouldn't really have killed you."

"It's normal, I'd be worried if you didn't feel that way. You're a good person, Fred, and you want to believe there's goodness in others."

"Thanks." She ducked her head a little shyly, a weight lifted off her shoulders.

"I have question for you, Fred." He lifted her chin with one finger. "Has Buffy given out any more information about what she intends to do?"

"As far as I know, we're sitting tight. The base is on high alert and we're just going to ride out the storm." Fred shivered a little, goose bumps appearing on her rms as the base's air conditioning hummed to life above her. "She said Riley would arrange a bunch of tactical strikes to clear out a lot of the demons, hopefully it won't be long before we can get out of here."

"And about whoever murdered Dawn and Cordelia?"

"No new information that I've heard. It could be anyone. I guess there was a plot to kill Cara while she was unconscious and who knows how many spies Wolfram and Hart have planted here." Shivering for a completely different reason, she hugged one of the books closer for comfort. "How are you doing, Wes? Are you feeling okay?"

He smiled and nodded, "Quite well considering. A little tired and there's a strange aftertaste lingering, probably from the surgeries. But you needn't worry about me."

"I'm just glad to have you back."

"So? Is there anything else I've missed?" He gave her another broad smile. "The last few days are a bit hazy."

"It has been hectic, hasn't it?" Wrapping her arms around the stack of books, she rested her chin on the top and tried to think if there was anything else pertinent that he might need to know.

"I'm vaguely remembering that Faith and Spike are…"

"Married," she finished matter-of-factly. "And I think Faith's pregnant. No one's said anything but she seems to be a lot more cautious than I remember Faith being. And a few odd comments here and there that make more sense if she is." Her cheeks flushed and she sat up straight. "I shouldn't gossip. I'm sorry. I'm just tired and my brain is all fuzzy."

"No, it's fine. I had wondered the same thing myself." He waved away her embarrassment. "Well, I supposed that's good news. The Slayer lines do need to be regenerated."

"I'm not sure this is exactly what the mystical Slayer powers had in mind since Spike isn't exactly a run of the mill kind of guy."

"That might lead to a rather unusual child."

She was unable to stifle a wide yawn, giving him a small smile once she was able. "Guess I should head to bed. Buffy wants everyone to be rested up for tomorrow."

"That sounds like a very sensible plan. Why don't you get some sleep?"

"What about you, Wes?"

"I have a few more ideas I'd like to look into. Research." He reached for one of the books.

"Don't stay up too late," she chided him lightly as she pushed away from the table and got to her feet. "Good night, Wes." He gave her a small wave and returned to his book. A smile on her face as she headed for the doors, she was glad she'd stayed up late enough to talk to him. It felt like a lifetime since she'd had a good conversation with her favorite Watcher. Patting her pants pockets, she realized she'd left her key card at the table and turned around to return for it, nearly colliding with Wesley.

"You forgot this." He held out the card.

"Thanks." She tucked the card into her pocket. "Guess I'm more tired than I thought."

"Fred? There's something." He looked down at the floor almost shyly.

"Yes?"

"I realized something, when I was lying there on the floor in the motel room and I knew I was going to die." Searching blue eyes met hers, almost shining in the dim light. "I realized how much it hurt that I would never see you again."

"Wes." She blushed uncomfortably. "We've been through this."

"And we were wrong." He closed the distance between them with a single step, reaching out to slip his hand into her hair, curving around the back of her neck as he pulled her against him. His lips met hers with a heady combination of hesitation and determination. She melted against him, soaking up the heat of his body and returning his kiss fervently. When he pulled away, he was smiling down at her and stroking the back of her neck softly.

"Wes." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Was that a mistake?"

"No, no. It was wonderful." She looked away, trying to calm her racing thoughts. "And it hurt to lose you, too. I guess I didn't realize, until you were gone."

He kissed her again before letting go, pulling his hands and heat away. "I should let you get some sleep. I just wanted you to know."

The war inside her head reached a new level of frantic noise and she wished she could put her hands over her ears to shut it out. "I…I," she stammered nervously, reaching out to take his hands and throw caution to the wind.

"Yes?"

"I don't want to be alone," she blurted out recklessly.

His fingers tightened around hers and he smiled, "I would love to keep you company, if you'd like."

"I feel a little silly."

"Don't." He pressed another quick kiss against her forehead. "Lead the way and I shall follow."

Her feet moved faster than she intended, driven by the racing in her head as she tried to make sense of what was going on. They'd been through this before and decided that they should both move on with their lives, that whatever had been between them was far too complicated for their already too complicated world. But that was then and this was now. She'd lost him once and had been given a second chance. And she really didn't want to be alone. They could all die tomorrow, did it really matter how she spent tonight? The keycard shook in her hands as she swiped it through the control panel. The door had barely hissed shut when Wesley's lips were against hers again. She fumbled for the lights but gave up when his hands found the buttons of her shirt and his lips moved down her neck.

"This is crazy." She whispered, clutching at his shoulders.

"I know." Teeth caught the sensitive skin just below her ear and cold air hit her bare skin, making his warm hands that much more delicious as they slid over her shoulders and back.

Words stuck in her throat, leaving her capable only of breathing and indecipherable moaning. She was hot now, unable to feel the cold, a few stray tendrils of hair clinging to her skin while the rest tumbled wildly over her shoulders. Lost in the sensation of heat and skin, it took her a few seconds to register the feeling of something cold and damp crawling up the middle of her back. Confused, she tried to twist around and reach for whatever it was. He caught her wrists tightly.

"Wesley? I think there's something on me." She struggled against his grip, trying to understand why he wouldn't let her go. The coldness moved up between her shoulder blades and she thought she could feel liquid dripping down her back.

"The more you fight, the more it will hurt," he whispered.

"Wesley?" The rising level of panic registered in her voice.

Sharp teeth or claws sunk into her skin at the base of her neck and she began to fight against him in earnest as the pain dug deeper into her flesh. He moved both of her wrists to one hand and covered her mouth with his other hand. She was screaming against his fingers and the thing continued burrowing under her skin, stars beginning to dot her vision as energy drained from her muscles. Paralysis spread through her body and she slumped against his chest, sliding to the floor when Wesley let go of her. The lights sprang to life, searing into her eyes and making them water as her pupils slowly closed. He crouched beside her and checked the pulse in her wrist with cold detachment. She tried to speak, her chest was rising and falling as she inhaled and exhaled, but she couldn't get her throat or mouth to cooperate.

"It will be a few more minutes before the parasite has complete control of you," he told her casually, his eyes moving over her bare chest. She could feel the brush of skin as his fingers touched her stomach but couldn't pull away or stop him. Desperately she hoped that the hesitation she could see in his eyes meant that he was going to stop whatever he'd done to her before it was too late. The flicker of hope died with the hunger in his voice. "It has been a very long time since I've felt a woman's skin." There was nothing she could do, terrified and furious, but stare out of her own body while he picked her up and carried her to her bunk, laying her gently down on the blankets. The hunger was still there, making his familiar blue eyes sharp and frightening.

"It's an interesting form of existence. Living without being alive. You move, you speak, you think, but you can't feel anything." He turned his hand over slowly as though inspecting it for flaws. "No warmth or cold, no smooth or rough. Just nothing. After so long, you forget what it is to feel. Forget what your skin is for other than to hold organs that no longer function from spilling out onto the floor." His focus turned back to her and she could feel his hand, palm down, on her stomach. "It will be different for you. You'll be able to feel everything but you won't be able to move and the words you speak won't be your own, they'll belong to the parasite in your brain, which, of course, belongs to me. You see, it's my job to see that no one gets out of here alive and you're going to help me." He smiled at the same moment the realization dawned that somehow this wasn't Wesley, seeing the terror in her eyes and nodding. "You've figured it out by now. We didn't bring your Watcher back." He stood up beside the bunk and very slowly began unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes watching her closely. She raged silently in her head and tried to look anywhere but at him.

"Please understand that this is truly not something a man of my position would ever do. At least, not personally and not while you can't even scream, that does take the fun out of it. But it has been such a long time." Warm fingers brushed away the tears that had slipped from the corners of her eyes. "Years of not being alive but not allowed the peace of death changes you in ways you can't imagine in that pretty little southern head of yours. It made Lilah more human, if you can believe that, made her doubt her purpose. Such irony. As for myself, nothing so noble occurred in the time since my death and while I know that I should find what I'm about to do distasteful, I'm afraid it's quite the opposite."

His eyes were cold and his voice flat as he slid off his shirt, "My wife, may she rest in peace, was murdered by Darla and then Angel sealed the rest of us in that room to die. I would like to say that I forgave him for what happened, I really would. But I'm afraid that I've spent far too much time watching him bumble about incompetently, catered to by the Powers and the Senior Partners alike. He's special, he's prophesied. He's pathetic." The last word was spat out as though it tasted bad. She was trying with all her might to pretend she wasn't there, that she wasn't in the same room with a monster wearing Wesley's face. "This is just a little taste of my revenge. Wesley, Cordelia, you. I plan on taking everyone who matters to Angel away from him and everything he's fought for all these years. Although it would be a pity to waste such an intellect, perhaps I'll keep you after all this is done." He whispered something in a language she didn't understand and either out of mercy or preference, the words closed her eyes and blocked out the sight of him.

* * *

Gunn waited until Gwen was safely asleep before climbing out of the bunk they were sharing and getting dressed as quietly as possible. Sleep would soon be a precious commodity and he didn't want to take any of it from her while he was out chasing half-formed suspicions in the early hours of the morning. If he was wrong, he would climb back into bed and she would be none the wiser. The lights in the hallway were dimmed in the attempt to create artificial nightfall for the residents of the base. He found it unnerving, a permanent dusk that seemed to breed shadows within the darkened corridors. Buffy had chosen to keep the rest of them in the literal and figurative dark and Angel remained silent and broody than usual. The frustration at losing Cordelia was compounded by the fact that no one seemed to be doing anything or even want to do anything.

The hallways were nearly deserted and the crime scene was easy enough to find. Calling it a crime scene was almost humorous but he couldn't bring himself to laugh, slipping under the tape that crisscrossed over the storage room door. He didn't know what he expected to find but the floor had been freshly mopped and the shelves appeared undisturbed. It looked like an innocent supply closet that hadn't witnessed two murders. He crouched down and ran a finger over the cold tile, not even picking up any dust. Under Buffy's orders, the entire room had been wiped clean of any evidence. He wanted to be sympathetic and believe that Buffy was merely coping with her sister's death but he couldn't agree with her methods. They were Cordelia's friends, her family, and they should have been included in whatever decisions were made about her finding her killer. Instead, they had completely been cut out of the loop without so much as an explanation. There wasn't anything left for him to find.

Frustrated and helpless, he had to consciously keep himself from slamming the door behind him. Another spot on the wall had been taped off and looked freshly washed. He glanced back and forth between the wall and the supply closet. It would take someone with a bigger brain than his to make sense of the traces left behind. He retraced his steps, detouring just before he reached the door of the room he and Gwen shared. The echo of his knocking seemed too loud in the stillness of the hallway and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

"Come on, Fred. I need that brain of yours." He muttered to himself and knocked again.

The door hissed open and Wesley blinked at him, naked except for a blanket wrapped around his waist. "Gunn? What's going on?"

Gunn was speechless, looking over Wesley's shoulder to see Fred's bare back in the bunk. Her hair was a loose tumble of golden brown over the pillow, her side rising and falling with the easy rhythm of sleep. Words continued to disappear as he grasped for them and he wasn't sure if he wanted to turn around and walk away or break Wesley's jaw.

"Does this bother you?" There was an edge of mockery in Wesley's voice that wasn't lost on Gunn.

"Should it?"

Wesley lazily glanced back at Fred and shrugged, "She's a grown woman capable of making her own decisions."

"No doubt. And we all know how long you've been wanting to scratch that itch."

"You have no idea." The smile was strangely cold.

"I'd like to speak to Fred alone if that's alright with you."

"I'd rather not wake her but if you insist." Wesley waved him into the room. He leaned down and whispered something to Fred, his hand sliding provocatively down to pull the blanket up over her naked body.

"Gunn? What is it?" She rolled over and rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Look, I'm sorry to bust in on…whatever this is."

"Don't be so immature, Gunn," she giggled as she sat up and reached for her clothes. "It's just sex, you don't have to be such a prude about it."

"I really don't want to hear this, it's…a little too much information, you know? You're like my sister." Gunn backed out of the room. "Just get some clothes on and come with me." He wanted to wipe the self-satisfied look off of Wesley's face, unsure of why he was so hostile toward a man who was his friend. Something about Wesley had changed.

Slipping back into her clothes, Fred tugged her hair into a tight ponytail and kissed Wesley on the lips. "Keep the bed warm, this will only take a minute."

Gunn felt as though he had insects crawling beneath his skin as he walked down the hallway again, keeping his distance from Fred with sudden awkwardness. She was humming something far too happy for what was going on around them. Scratching at the phantom bugs, he stole a sideways glance at her and found himself checking for anything unusual.

"So," he cleared his throat. "Wes seems to be bouncing right back. Everything working?"

"Gunn." She gave him a playful wink. "Yes, everything's just fine. You should be happy, you know he's wanted me for years."

"And you? I mean, you want him?"

She shrugged, "Of course I do. And I didn't want to be alone tonight. What exactly are we doing?"

Gunn shook off the weirdness of Fred and Wesley and tried to focus on the task at hand. "I want your take on the crime scene."

"Buffy's already been over it, Gunn. There's nothing left to find."

"Just look at it, okay?"

Fred stopped and gave him a patient look, head tipped to the side indulgently. "Gunn. I know you feel that you need to be doing something but I'm sure Buffy has everything under control. She is a Slayer."

"It's Cordelia's killer. The man, woman, or whatever who killed our friend. I can't sit and do nothing."

"All right. I'll take a look but you really need to get some rest." She took a deep breath and glanced back and forth between the taped off areas. "Found them in the supply closet, blood on the wall. Seems pretty straightforward."

"So what isn't straightforward?"

"I'm not a forensic scientist, Gunn. I'm really not qualified to even speculate."

"Anything at all?"

"Well." She stepped off a few paces down the hallway. "If I were going to kill two people in the hallway where anyone could come around the corner, I'd want to be as close to the closet as possible. And have a silencer obviously. But probably close to the victims too. So, maybe, there could be blood on the killer's clothing? I think I saw that on TV."

"Anything else?"

Fred pondered the hallway for a few more moments. "We need to find the gun and the clothes the killer was wearing. That would be proof. But you'd have to check every single bunk and this is a big base."

"Then I'll search every single room. By myself if I have to."

"Gunn." She shook her head, reaching out to pat his arm. "I know you were upset with Cordelia. I know that you two fought when we got here on the base and that you never got to apologize for being a big jerk. But this isn't going to help."

"No one's doing anything, Fred!" He pulled away from her, rubbing his head with growing agitation.

"You're starting to scare me, Gunn." She took a step back and when he turned around he thought he saw true terror in her eyes for a brief moment.

"I'm sorry, Fred. Just feels like the walls are starting to close in, you know."

"Go back to bed. Please. Leave this for morning when we're awake and have functioning brains. We'll find the killer."

"You're right." He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. "Sorry to drag you out of bed. Or whatever."

"And you're okay with me and Wes, right?"

"Little weirded out but if you're happy then we're cool." He forced a smile even though his skin was still crawling.

They started down the hallway back toward their bunks and met Wesley at the junction in the hallway. Resisting the urge to grimace at the gratuitous affection and unable to stomach the images of Wesley nearly groping her in the hallway, he kept his eyes looking in the opposite direction and mumbled a thank you. The comfort of his bunk and Gwen couldn't come soon enough. Still trying to shrug off the uneasy sensation making his skin tingle, he swiped his key card and breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind him. The lights were on and Gwen was sitting at the small table near the bed.

"You would not believe the first class weirdness I just witnessed." He stopped short when he turned around. Gwen's face was white and frightened; one of his t-shirts was spread out before her, a spray of dark spots stood out against the white cotton and nestled in the fabric was a handgun with a silencer on one end.

"Gwen?"

"I found this in your stuff. Can you explain it?"

"I don't know anything about this."

"Is that blood?" She stood up abruptly and slammed her fists down on the table. "Tell me what's going on!"

He held up his hands, "Take it easy."

"I saw you with Cordelia, I saw you fighting with her. Tell me that's not her blood, please. Tell me you didn't do this!"

"Of course I didn't, that's crazy. Gwen, calm down."

"What am I supposed to think? Wesley asked if he could borrow a shirt and when I opened your bag, I found this." Her voice quavered and she folded her arms

tightly, as though trying to keep warm.

"I don't know how that got into my bag. You know I didn't bring a gun with me." A knock on the door set his already rattled nerves on edge and he glanced nervously between the door and Gwen. "Gwen, please."

The knocked sounded again, louder this time. "Gunn? It's Buffy. Is everything all right? Gwen?"

"Gwen," he hissed. She shook her head sadly, tears shining in her eyes.

Gunn lowered his hands as the door slid open, keeping his back straight and his shoulders set as he waited for whatever trap had been set for him. How or why he didn't know and from the looks on the faces in the hallway, he was better off keeping his mouth shut. Buffy wasn't alone, she'd come to pay him a visit with half a dozen armed guards.

* * *

The smell of coffee permeated Riley's office and the mug may have held the answers to the universe from the way Buffy was staring into the dark liquid. Faith was curled into the leather office chair across the room with a bottle of water rolling idly in her hands. They could hear arguing outside the office, a voice here and there getting loud enough to rise above the others.

"Sounds like a mutiny." Faith took a sip of water and winced at another shout.

"They're scared and confused."

"You know, B. I don't think Gunn's the guy. I mean, I've done a bit of demon killing with him and he's always been a straight shooter."

Buffy sipped her coffee and finally looked up, turning her eyes to the ceiling this time. "Gunn's too easy, too obvious. Whoever did this is smart. And careful."

"Too smart to leave a gun lying around. Maybe they're getting spooked, figure they better set someone up to take the suspicion off of them."

"This doesn't feel spooked, it feels arrogant." She set the coffee mug gently down on the desk. "But if the killer is framing Gunn, it might be safe to assume they're done killing for awhile. Or at least moving on to a non-killing part of their plot."

"God, I hope so. Everyone's wound tight enough to snap as it is."

"We need more time." Buffy frowned at her mug.

"Guess we could put everyone in the same room and play a rousing game of Clue."

"Morbid but not entirely a bad idea." Buffy pushed her chair back far enough to prop her feet up on Riley's desk. "At the very least, we might be able to rule people out when they turn up dead."

Faith uncurled her legs to shift her position in the chair. "So we play along. Sooner or later they'll tip their hand, right?"

"Best plan we've got so far. And it keeps Gunn safe. Locked up but safe."

"And Gwen?"

Buffy seemed to hesitate, "I'd rather not split them up. How is she taking all this?"

"Upset, frightened. She thinks he's innocent, of course."

"Don't we all when it's the man we love." Her thoughts were a million miles away. "Then we lock Gunn up. Make a show of it but not overdone, we need the killer to think we're in the market but not sold. Keeps him or her cautious."

"The cards'll show eventually." Faith glanced toward the door without any enthusiasm.

"They'll have to make a play for you and the baby and by then they won't care if we know. We just need to stick to the plan and whatever they have up their sleeve won't matter. We don't need to know what they're going to do next, we just need to hold them off for a few more hours."

"You really believe Cara?" Faith kept her voice low.

Buffy pulled her feet off the desk and picked up her coffee mug. "She was the only one not playing games, not running her own agenda. She was just a Slayer."

"And you're sure about this?"

"It'll work." Buffy eyed the door to the Command Center distastefully. "Ready for another round of bad cop, bad cop?"

"I am if you are."

It went about as well as expected. Faith kept silent, standing at Buffy's side to make sure everyone else knew that even without words, she was firmly behind whatever Buffy decided. The show of solidarity felt strange, like wearing clothing that didn't quite fit and kept twisting around her limbs. Spike remained similarly quiet, his eyes alert and watchful over the others. It helped, knowing that he trusted her completely despite the fact that she was unable to tell him anything. Both Angel and Gwen were vocal about Gunn's innocence while Fred and Wes supported being cautious, considering all the evidence before passing judgment either way. They were also in agreement that Gunn should be contained both for safety and security. As that seemed to be the most sensible course of action, Giles and Xander voiced their support while maintaining that no hasty decisions should be made. When it was clear that no harm was going to come to their friend, the voices began to lower and calm, the tension in the room lessening.

"If that's all we have to discuss, I'll take care of Gunn." Buffy gave the room a tight smile.

"Where is Willow?" Wesley seemed to notice her absence for the first time.

"Leia isn't doing well," she lied without hesitation. "I told Willow she could stay with her and that I would tell her what was decided." Her grim expression softened when she looked toward Gwen. "Everyone please try to relax and get some rest. Now is not the time to turn against each other, we need to stick together. Is there anything else that I need to know about?"

"I want to know what you're doing to find the real killer. Other than locking up innocent people." Gunn kept his eyes focused on the wall straight ahead, not looking at any of the group.

"A med team collected evidence from the supply closet and from what we found in your bunk. They're not equipped to act as forensics lab but they'll be able to tell us if the blood on the t-shirt is the same type as what we found in the hallway." Buffy answered briskly, her words clipped and emotionless. "The gun is a standard issue here at Genesis and could have been taken off of any rack along with the silencer. We can't match the ballistics but the magazine is short two rounds. There is also a group going over every second of surveillance video we have from the last twenty-four hours. This is going to take some time so please be patient. We have over a hundred cameras here and it may take days to go through all the footage. I hope that what we find on the videos proves that you had nothing to do with this, Gunn."

The answer seemed to satisfy him and he nodded once before standing up. "Lead the way."

"We'll take it from here, please get some rest." She motioned to the others.

"Let me go with him." Gwen's face was still pale.

Buffy hesitated for a moment, visibly torn by the decision, and finally nodded, "All we have now is each other, we need to hold onto that." There was only silence from the rest of the room as Gunn was led away by two guards to be placed in one of the containment rooms that the Initiative and then Genesis had used to hold demon specimens. Gradually the rest of the group left with grim apprehension hanging over their heads; leaving Faith and Buffy to wonder uneasily if they had made the right decision.

* * *

Willow didn't look up, still caught and trapped inside the magic swirling around her. She had to stay focused and keep all the pins in the air as she juggled and juggled and juggled until her mind no longer had the strength to keep everything going. Buffy's presence was a subtle change in the room behind her and without any words she gave Willow the warning that the time table had just stepped up. Things were going wrong and somehow dawn was approaching faster than it should have been. She couldn't pull herself away from the magic long enough to ask how or why and Buffy didn't stay long enough to answer, retreating before she could unintentionally disturb what was going on in the morgue.

The weary part of her ached to stop the incantations, to put her head down and sleep for days. Her focus wavered, never drifting away but faltering and stumbling for the briefest of moments. There was no room for even a moment of doubt, not even a second where she didn't believe she could pull off the greatest magic trick in the history of the world. No room for error and she had to do it in too little time. Sweat dripped down her back, her skin hot despite the cool surroundings. Then she felt Leia enter the room and nearly lost her balance.

Instead of reaching out for Willow, Leia settled onto the cold tile behind her and very gently pressed her back against Willow's. After a second of confusion, Willow realized what she was doing and relaxed against the makeshift human chair. It eased some of the pain in her back. There were no words spoken and while she could feel Leia's fear she could also feel determination. Images filtered into her mind and a familiar voice. Something about Dr. James and Sam Finn. Birkman. There was gunfire and a man's voice shouting, twisted beyond recognition by hatred. Cara's voice. _Once the killing starts, stick close to Willow. They'll have a plan, they always have a plan. Trust them. _The images began to tangle and blur and she pushed them away firmly. Leia was trying to tell her what happened. She was also trying to be supportive, to let Willow know she was at her back.

Willow wasn't sure what surprised her more; that Cara had trusted them to have a plan or that Leia was now putting that same trust in Willow. Drawing on the strength of two rather than one, she cleared her mind and returned to the spells at hand. They'd have plenty of time to talk after this was all over.

* * *

Any further thoughts of sleep were gone and since there was no place for him in the library with a very tired and cranky Giles; Spike returned to the lookout post and resumed his vigilant watch over the Hellmouth. All that had changed in the time he'd been away was the placement of the chairs and the number of occupants. This time, he was alone. He found the silence comforting, allowing him to think about what was going on around him and about the hollow feeling in his stomach that was growing with each passing minute; knowing that Faith wouldn't tell him, couldn't tell him, what was going on beneath the façade. He didn't know what bothered him more; not knowing the truth or knowing that the less she could tell them the more dangerous the truth had to be.

The chair grew increasingly uncomfortable, dawn was creeping ever closer, and he kept shifting as he turned the possibilities over in his head. Faith trusted him and, beyond all he deserved, Buffy trusted him as well. Did he trust them both enough to stay in the dark? To know that what he was being told wasn't necessarily the truth and still follow orders with only blind faith to guide him. Faith. The wedding band was smooth against his skin, spinning around his finger slowly and idly in time with the circles his thoughts were running. They were going to come after him and Faith and the baby.

"Who the fuck are _they_?" He seethed to no one. What could they possibly have to fear from his child? It was an unsettling thought that subdued his fury with fear. He couldn't believe that the baby was wrong or evil or in any way deserved to be hunted down and destroyed before it drew its first breath. It gave meaning to a life that was yet unborn, meaning beyond a normal human life. The child would be born with the weight of being different on its shoulders, the weight of the world. He turned that thought over a few times and liked it less and less each time. Would his child be doomed to carry that weight from the very moment it was born? How would he be able to protect the child from everything he knew was out there? His eyes focused on the night ahead of him without his brain actually engaging in what was happening.

If it was true and the child inside Faith was possibly even more important to others than it was to him, then the rest of their lives would be spent protecting that life. Until the almost inevitable day that they failed. It was chilling, more so than being in love with a Vampire Slayer and having the constant violence of her calling bleed into their lives. He had accepted that as part and parcel, even savoring the excitement and the danger. There had to be a stable equilibrium point between keeping their child safe without smothering the poor kid. He wasn't sure if it would be better or worse if they had a few years of relative normality before that life was thrust onto them. Part of him hoped everyone was wrong, that the baby would be perfectly normal and not have to bear that kind of weight.

A handful of the flickering lights disappeared into the high school; the structure of the lookout post shuddered around him with a disturbance he couldn't see and didn't quite alarm him. It was California and tremors weren't unusual. One of the chairs rattled quietly against the floor as another tremor shook the lookout. Surrounded by that many demons with nothing better to do but cause trouble; there was no such thing as too careful. A third shudder erased any hope he had that it was just an innocent earthquake.

"And that would be the other shoe," he muttered, squinting to try and see what was going on under cover of darkness. Whatever it was couldn't be good. Giles would be able to give them a heads up if a Hellmouth opening party had been scheduled.

He was halfway out the door when he heard it. Perhaps he felt it. Maybe the air in the room stirred or dropped a few degrees. Perhaps he just knew something was coming. Turning around slowly, he scrutinized the lookout windows with rapt attention. Steel bars covered them on the outside and they were nearly impenetrable even from the inside. He was suddenly very aware that there wasn't another living soul in the lookout, something that was completely against procedure for a military base on high alert. Lights flickered outside the windows. There had been torches all night but these were closer. Too close. Instinctively, he slipped to the side and pressed himself into the darkest corner behind a support beam. It was a tight fit and uncomfortable, but it kept him in the shadows and relatively hidden.

Their footsteps were quiet and the figures entering the lookout were obviously trying to be stealthy. And from the sound of it, they weren't exactly in agreement about the next course of action.

"Innocent people are going to die," the tallest figure hissed and Spike recognized Frye Birkman's voice.

"That's not your concern." A smooth, British voice responded. Wesley?

"I did my part. It's not my fault Cara busted out of here and got herself killed."

"I'm hardly worried about that, she was quite the liability and I'm glad to be rid of her," Wesley continued conversationally as he placed several small objects at the base of the windows.

"I can't just let you open up a window and let every demon in Sunnydale in here." Birkman tried again, more insistently this time.

"I explained this. I'm exiting the base, whether or not anything gets in after I leave isn't my problem."

The third figure had remained silent but Spike could tell from the silhouette that it was a woman. She was familiar as well but the stiff-backed posture was both unnatural and out of character for the soft-spoken Texan. He watched her more carefully and became more alarmed when Wesley gave an order in another language that seemed to spur her into motion. She produced a small cup and began painting a series of lines over the glass. Each movement was stiff and robot-like and she never looked at the other occupants in the room. This was unlike the Fred he had met briefly at Buffy's house. That Fred had been talkative and animated even at three o'clock in the morning.

"You think they're not going to get in?"

"I just can't bring myself to care." Wesley chuckled at an inside joke. "I'm planning on destroying this whole town, what does it matter who goes first?"

Spike frowned as he remembered Cara's words. _They'll bury this whole town. Demon, human, every blade of grass_. Wesley was a part of the infamous They? That didn't seem to make any sense. Then again, Wesley should be dead. The hollow in his stomach sunk a little deeper, perhaps Wesley was still dead and this was merely the shell left behind and filled with another creature. Wolfram and Hart had really outdone themselves. They had planted traitors behind the very faces that should have been trustworthy.

"It was just supposed to be Spike."

"You have such a small mind, Mr. Birkman," Wesley chided.

Spike saw Birkman reach for the knife at his hip and silently cheered him on. The man may be an idiot but he wasn't evil enough to sacrifice hundreds of innocent people just to make sure Spike turned up dead. He heard the foreign command, uttered in such a casual tone that it hardly sounded like an order for execution. In an instant, the silent automaton that used to be Fred became a snarling hellcat. Spike wouldn't have ever believed she could be a match for Birkman but she was on in him in a flash and he was dead before he hit the ground. She stood up and the stiffness returned; blood spattered gruesomely over her face and chest, waiting for the next command. Spike blinked several times, staring at Birkman's still body with growing unease. How the hell had she done that?

Candles flared and the lines drawn on the glass filled the room with an orange glow. Spike narrowed his eyes against the light, still trying to see what was happening even though it hurt to watch. The lookout trembled once again before the windows exploded outward with the force of a bomb. Metal shrieked as the protective bars snapped and peeled away. It had become a gaping wound of shattered glass, leaving the base open and exposed to the nightmares outside.

Wesley climbed out first and Fred followed him methodically. Standing just beyond the window, he turned back and smiled with more evil and cruelty than Spike thought could be possible. Not needing any more encouragement, Spike barreled out of the room and slammed the door behind him. His fist hit the alarm button, bathing the corridors once again in flashing lights and sirens. Glass shattered as he broke through another alarm a few feet down the hallway and a thick metal door slid down to cut off the lookout. It would slow them down. Now he had to get to Buffy and pray that she was ready with whatever insane plan she had concocted. He nearly knocked over two guards as they investigated the alarms.

"Lookout compromised!" he shouted, waving back toward the lookout.

"Did you seal the corridor?" One of the men yelled back.

"Yes! Where's Buffy?"

"Morgue!" The guard was already racing away from Spike, gun ready for whatever waited at the other end of the hallway.

He narrowly avoided colliding with Buffy as she stepped out of the morgue, skidding to a stop and trying to catch his breath. "Buffy! Long story…window gone. Wesley, Fred…not very nice people." Faith stepped through the doors behind her and looked dazedly around at the flashing lights. When neither of them answered, he kept talking between breaths. "The lookout by the high school is wide open. Just a matter of time before they get in." He looked to Buffy again, surprised that she didn't seem upset by this. For that matter, neither did Faith. "Are you two okay?"

"They're fine," Willow answered quickly, propping the morgue doors open. Her face was white and there were dark circles under her eyes.

Behind her, Spike watched with equal parts disbelief and horror as the bodies of Dawn and Cordelia moved around, checking their fingers and limbs as if to test them. He turned on Willow fiercely. "Have you lost your fucking mind? We're about to be slaughtered and you're playing around with resurrecting the dead? Didn't you learn your fucking lesson the first time?"

She winced under his tirade but shook her head in response. "Buffy asked me to. This way they can follow us out of the base. She didn't want…didn't want to leave the bodies here. You know what the demons will do to them." She shuddered wearily and leaned against her girlfriend for support.

"How could you?" Spike clenched his fists, fingernails digging into his palms. "After you saw what it did to Buffy? How could you?"

"Spike?" Dawn started toward him, brushing at her blood stained clothes. "You could be a little happier to see me, you know."

He cringed and pulled away, "Sorry. It's just…after…after what Buffy went through."

"I'm not Buffy." She stuck out her tongue and crossed her arms over her chest. "It won't be the same."

"What's this about demons?" Cordelia rubbed her neck and stretched her shoulders. "Time to kick some ass?"

"This should be fun." Dawn was staring at her hands with unusual fascination. "Look, Cordy, I'm not dead! And neither are you."

"Yeah, well…we've still got that whole been-shot look going on. Which was so last season." Cordelia sighed melodramatically.

"You're having way too much fun with this."

"Umm…hello?" Spike wondered when the world had gone insane. "What the hell is going on here? Demons…in the base…everyone's going to die. What are we doing about it?"

"We're going to use this to get out of here," Dawn answered cheerfully, holding up the portal token.

"Right. But the portal's out there."

"Well, out there isn't so much different from in here, now is it?" Dawn took Buffy's arm and started walking.

"What did you say about Wesley and Fred?" Willow seemed to shake off some of her tiredness.

"I don't think they are Wesley and Fred. But it doesn't matter now, they're gone. Left the base." Spike backed away from the women, convinced that they'd all lost their minds. "Are you sure this was a good idea, Willow?"

"Look, everything's fine. Just trust me." She rubbed her temple wearily. "People will go to the command center looking for Buffy so we should head there. Right, Buffy?" Buffy stared blankly at Willow and turned around.

Spike just stared as the women started down the hallway, finally convincing his feet to move. He tried to catch Faith's attention but she didn't seem to see anything. Was this part of the plan?

"You okay?" Cordelia asked him quietly.

"Fine. Just a little creeped out." He kept his distance.

"Never thought you were the skittish type." She grinned at him.

"It's just…creepy."

"Trust us, Spike. We know what we're doing."

He eyed her suspiciously, looking back and forth between the Faith who wouldn't look at him and the Cordelia who would. On a hunch, he reached out and touched her arm. Electricity raced through his fingers, setting his hair on end and stopping him dead in his tracks.

Cordelia's shoulders shrugged but it was Faith's smile. "Can't fool you, can I?"

* * *

Holland was whistling something cheerful he couldn't remember the name of. Oh yes, _Whistle While You Work_, that was the name. He wasn't working as much as he was delegating but it still felt good to whistle while other people worked. A large chunk of the Sunnydale High School's basement had been excavated and he was waiting patiently for them to open up a clear shot to the Hellmouth. Shamans were waiting nearby and before the sun had a chance to peek over the horizon, Sunnydale would be no more than a memory.

"Sir? We have activity at the base," a member of wet works team informed him briskly.

"Ah, lovely." He smiled at his captive Fred. "Shall we go watch your friends die?" Uttering the command to follow him, he didn't give her another look until they were situated on the roof of the school with the perfect view. Sure enough, the vampires had found the hole he'd left and were scrambling to get into the base. Gunfire and the smell of napalm filled the night air. Every tree above the base was either smoldering or burning, pumping ash and smoke into the sky. Flashing lights and thundering engines swooped back and forth, steel birds spitting bullets and fire. There were enough demons to keep the troops occupied for weeks. He'd seen to that. Had made sure every vampire and every demon on earth would be here in Sunnydale. But that plan had been when he'd only had Cara to deal with and now there had to be a new plan.

He could no longer allow anything to survive in Sunnydale. The town had to be ripped up by its roots before the Senior Partners were forced to cede defeat to their ageless nemeses and slip away to lick their wounds. Just Spike would have been a blow but to have Spike and the baby together happen under their noses without any prior notification was unthinkable. Of course, they would possibly lose Angel as well but the Powers seemed hardly to care about that. They were the ones who had conveniently forgotten to let Angel in on the clause in Cordelia's promotion to half-demon. It was a machiavellian move even he could admire, turning Angel's friends into tools he would be forced to use and occasionally destroy in the process.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" He watched Fred's impassive face for a moment, reaching out to stroke her hair. How long would it take to break her? To corrupt her completely enough that he would be able to remove the parasite and still retain control of her. He could be patient. Impulsively he commanded the parasite to allow its host to speak. "You might learn to appreciate me, Fred."

She coughed and drew several ragged breaths when she realized she had control of her tongue. "Monster."

"Sweet Fred."

"Get your hands off of me." Her voice shook with rage.

"I don't think you understand that you're mine now."

"I'll never be yours. You may turn me into a puppet but I will never be yours."

"Such fire." He turned his eyes back to the battle spreading out beneath them. It was spilling into the town, down the streets and alleys like a flood made of violence and blood. The epicenter was clearly visible; a mobile inferno of weaponry and fire that sent out ripples in every direction and whipped the already excited demon population into frenzied savagery. Trapped, surrounded by traitors, and finally invaded; the Slayers had chosen to take their chances above ground. Apparently one trip through the armies of Hell hadn't been enough. Even if they did survive long enough to be met with reinforcements, Sunnydale was doomed to suffer the magical equivalent of a nuclear bomb. It could possibly take out a great deal more of California as well but such were the risks of upper management.

"What is going to happen?"

"I'm going to open the Hellmouth and destroy Sunnydale," he answered plainly.

"And to me?" Her voice was lower, afraid. "What's going to happen to me?"

"I've become quite fond of you. I would hardly wish for something to happen to you." He stroked her neck gently, savoring the softness of her skin. "I'm sure you'll get used to this arrangement."

"And you plan to rape me every day for the rest of my life?"

"Possibly more than once." He laughed at the defiance. "Such an ugly word, Miss Burkle. Must you use it?"

"A spade is a spade."

"And yet you were so ready to spread your legs when you believed I was Wesley. Women are fickle creatures."

"Wesley isn't a monster."

"Lilah would tell you otherwise." He was growing tired of the arguing and ordered the parasite to regain control of her voice. There was a struggle and he had to admire her pluck, fighting against the enemy beneath her skin. "If you don't want to watch them die, I'm sure I could think of something else to occupy your attention." The struggling stopped immediately.

A rousing chorus of shrieks and victory cries signaled that the fight was over even as it had begun. He shook his head with more than a touch of disappointment. It had been entertaining while it lasted but there was no doubt that the unintelligible cacophony of demon voices meant they had broken through and the blood seeping into the earth was Slayer blood. The final move was his.

He ordered Fred to follow and returned to the basement. "You should forget all about the Slayers and their raggedly little band of do-gooders. How far along are we?"

"Sir?" A younger man dressed in a lab coat stepped forward and motioned to a metallic device with the pen in his hand. "We can't seem to stabilize the energy fields."

"Then I suggest you try harder." Holland smiled when he wanted to grimace.

"With all due respect, sir, these equations are Fred's. She might be useful."

"Very well." He relinquished the parasite's hold on her voice but not her body and moved a few feet away to get a better vantage point of the Hellmouth. It was close enough to hear what they were saying.

"You bastard!" Fred's voice echoed angrily through the basement.

"Fred, please."

"No! Explain to me what exactly it is that you're doing here, Knox. Please explain it to me."

"Well…see…we're opening the Hellmouth."

"With my equations."

"You are the best. It's the gamma term here that I just can't seem to make balance." Knox motioned elaborately with his pen, poking at a crumpled piece of paper in his hand and accidentally jabbing Fred in the arm in his enthusiasm. "Oops, sorry 'bout that. I got ink on your shirt." He wiped at her sleeve ineffectually.

"Go to hell. Traitor." Fred bored holes into him with her furious glare.

"Fred, please. For the sake of science. Don't you want to see your equations work?"

"I won't help you."

Knox sighed dejectedly and turned back toward Holland. "Sorry, sir. It'll take me a bit longer to figure it out myself."

Holland resisted the urge to shake his head, "You have twenty minutes. I suggest you get working." When twenty minutes had come and gone, he was about ready to lose his cool. Any moment now and the Senior Partners would start wondering what had gone wrong. He had no desire be on the wrong end of their temper again. Why hadn't he just stolen a few nuclear warheads and wiped Sunnydale off the map the old fashioned way?

"Sir! I think I have it!" Knox waved his hand excitedly.

"And when can we get on with it?"

"I can set the device for what ever we need to get everyone out." He checked his watch. "It'll create an energy pulse at the same frequency as the Hellmouth but with enough intensity that it will destabilize the energy basis and cause localized structural collapse of the dimensional walls. It's brilliant, Fred. I mean, I know you meant it to be used to restabilize the walls but it's absolutely brilliant."

"Enough." Holland stopped the infernal babbling, anxious to get away from the lab technician who obviously doted on Fred. "Set the device for ten minutes and evacuate the premises. We'll return to Los Angeles."

"Yes sir." Knox gave him a lopsided smile before turning away to fiddle with the device.

"Very well." Holland gave the order to evacuate, waiting to make sure nothing else went wrong before he and Fred left the basement. He turned to give the order and was stunned to see that she wasn't standing where she had left him. Frowning, he glanced around the cavernous room and couldn't see a trace of the willowy physicist.

"Looking for me?"

His mind registered the level of rage in her voice and he made a note that it might be dangerous. That proved to be the understatement of his second lifetime when the business end of a sledgehammer impacted with his spine. Bone crunched and half of his body sung with pain while the other half seemed to disappear. He crumpled to the ground and sucked dirt into his lungs as he gasped.

"I'm not going to kill you, Holland. I just want to make sure you have to lie there…unable to move or scream." More bone crunched as she swung again and he tasted blood at the back of his mouth.

"Fred." He choked, clawing at the ground as he tried to drag his limp body away from her.

"I didn't say you could talk!" she snarled and raised the sledgehammer again.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Knox scrambled to his feet and stopped her, gently taking the weapon away. "Easy there. We need to get you to a hospital. The stuff I gave you might kill the parasite inside you and that would kill you too. Just relax."

"What about the Hellmouth?" Her voice trembled and through the haze of pain and blood, Holland could see that her entire body was shaking like a leaf.

"Oh, it's going to open and everything's going to die. Don't worry; I've already let the red, white, and blue know. Well, I told them it was a nuke but they got the idea. You've got to get out of here now, I'll make sure he's still here for the fireworks." She nodded numbly and turned away, disappearing around the corner.

Holland coughed up more blood, eyeing Knox warily even as the young man hummed merrily and fiddled with the device for nearly a minute. Another lopsided smile and he was convinced the scientist was more than a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

"You know, I'm glad you did this. She never really trusted me before, part of the Big Evil and all." He continued humming for a few more seconds before looking over his shoulder with a terrifying grin. "And you got rid of Wesley for me. I should be thanking you."

"What…are you talking about?" Holland couldn't remember any memo about mad scientists working at Wolfram and Hart, although he supposed that might be redundant.

"I'm going to follow your plan, open the Hellmouth, and then I'm going usher in a brand new world. With Fred as my queen. Well, she won't exactly be Fred anymore but she's not really Fred now. She's Fred with a parasite. And now, she'll be something even better." He held up his pen with an expression of awe. "It took me years to get it into injectable form. I kept the sarcophagus in storage, just waiting for the right vessel. I knew it had to be Fred but Wesley never let her be alone with me, can you believe that guy?"

The idea dawned on Holland that he hadn't quite anticipated all of the variables and the result was that he could now feel the coldness of imminent death seeping into his useless limbs. There were no words now; he couldn't get his tongue and lips to form the right shapes to produce speech. But if something became of this mad man's ramblings, if he truly had plans for Fred, then possibly it wouldn't be a complete loss.

"Well. I should go. Fred's waiting." Knox patted the device once more before leaving it blinking on the ground. "She's going to take some getting used to; you know…Illyria. I like the sound of it."

Shock took precedence over his own dying as Holland realized that the bumbling idiot had deliberately loosed an Old One into the world. The Senior Partners would keep him roasting in hell for this oversight. Why hadn't Lilah mentioned that Illyria's sarcophagus was being held at a Wolfram and Hart office? It was an unprecedented oversight on her part not to be aware of such a liability. He barely noticed Knox's retreat, still reeling from the whirlwind change of fortune, and half believed he was hallucinating when familiar Gucci shoes passed through his line of sight and the consequences of his second death began to become reality. The laugh was garbled by blood and paralysis, coming out of Holland's throat as a series of hisses and moans.

"At some point the student has to surpass the master." Lindsey knelt down beside Holland. "It's been great working for you, Holland. Now you'll be working for me." He checked his watch lazily and stood up. "I was going to ask if you wanted me to end it quickly but I think Fred deserves a little payback. You're going to that special Hell, Holland." A few steps and the polished shoes were gone; Holland was truly alone for the first time in two lifetimes.

There it was. All of the Senior Partner's loose ends tied up neatly to be incinerated when the small red light stopped blinking. He would be less than dust when it was all over, swept aside as just one more part of Sunnydale and returned to the hell of half-living. These last few moments would be paradise compared to any of the punishments the Senior Partners could think to inflict. Blink. Blink. The light turned solid and Holland held his breath.

Nothing happened.

He gagged on more blood and tried to look around for the next surprise. This time he didn't bother to even attempt comprehension. A young girl was watching him quizzically. At least, he thought it was a girl. She seemed to be human with wide blue eyes and long dark hair, but she glowed with a pale green light. Now he was sure he was hallucinating. Perhaps this was the part where the ghosts of those he'd murdered came back to point their fingers and howl about eternal torment. She had picked up the mechanical device and was turning it over in her hands curiously. Just as he was beginning to wonder what she was waiting for, the air seemed to shimmer and bend around her and she smiled cheerfully.

That smile was the last thing Holland saw before the world exploded.


	51. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Sunlight had turned the ocean into waves of diamonds. A lazy cloud drifted through the sky periodically and cast just enough shade to make staring out over the water possible. Buffy enjoyed those few minutes, pulling her eyes away from her flowerbeds to watch the horizon. She was never quite sure if she expected something to appear. Faith had complained of similar behavior, unable to pinpoint the source of the prickling between her shoulder blades. _No more demons to slay made Slayers bored out of their brains_, she liked to say.

Buffy smiled for no reason in particular and turned back to her flowers, adjusting the brim of her hat to keep the emerging sun away from her pale skin. Her knees were beginning to stiffen and she'd have to get up and stretch soon enough. Just a few more weeds.

"Sir? A vehicle is approaching the perimeter." Black military boots smudged with dirt and fertilizer stepped into her line of sight.

"That'll be Xander and Jane." Shielding her eyes with one hand, she awkwardly got to her feet with the help of the gardening stand Xander had given her. It had seemed silly at the time but she had been grateful as it got harder to get up and down with the awkward weight of a baby. The young Marine stayed just far away to not be hovering but close enough to help if she needed him. It had taken months to get used to the constant, if discrete, presence of the armed guards. As it turned out, even without demons there were still plenty of enemies to go around.

"We'll wave them through." The young man nodded sharply, heels clicking as he turned and disappeared back through the flowering bushes that bordered the garden.

Buffy rolled her eyes a little as she stripped off the gardening gloves and gently shook away the dirt and bits of weeds. Slipping off the thick-soled clogs at the edge of the garden, she went the rest of the way barefoot. The grass was cool and smooth beneath her feet; she wiggled her toes for a moment just to feel the blades tickling her skin. Further down the pathway the grass thinned and pale golden sand took over, rougher against her feet but still pleasant. It had been in shadow for the morning and was just now beginning to warm under the sun.

Lifting the brim of the sunhat, she scanned the beach in search of the rest of her visitors. The figures in the distance were too far away to tell who they were but she counted four. That left three more somewhere. The sound of giggling gave away the position of at least one of those and before Buffy had time to turn around, a wild tangle of chestnut hair on legs came barreling out of the trees.

"Aunt Buffy! Hide me!" The girl darted behind Buffy, covering her mouth in an attempt to mask the laughter and peeking out from behind her sundress. Branches rustled again and this time Willow appeared.

"Hey Buff. I don't suppose you've seen a little person…yay tall?" She winked at Buffy.

"You know, I think she ran that way." Buffy pointed toward the beach. "Is she dangerous, Will? Should I be worried?"

"I don't know about dangerous but she's very wily." Willow edged closer, pretending not to see the mass of curls appearing to spring from Buffy's dress. "Oh well. I guess she doesn't get any ice cream then. I'll have to eat it all by myself."

That was too much for the girl and she burst out of her hiding place. "I'm right here, Aunt Willow!" Her thin arms wrapped around Willow like a starfish.

Buffy grinned and started toward the porch steps, "Did someone mention ice cream?"

"I want chocolate!" Wide blue eyes sparkling, the girl took Willow's hand and pulled her toward the house.

"I think there's some chocolate just for you." Waving the girl into the house, Buffy took one more look at the beach. "Are they going to wait until they're lobsters or did anyone think to take sunscreen?"

"Leia left her sunscreen there when she came back to the house. I think she wanted to get a head start on lunch." Willow adjusted her ponytail with a twist, pulling out a few stray leaves that had hitched a ride through the foliage.

"She knows she doesn't have to cook."

"I think she enjoys it, makes her feel useful." Willow grinned as they entered the kitchen. "And she knows I think the apron's sexy."

"Very funny." Leia rolled her eyes as she pulled a carton of ice cream out of the freezer and set it on the counter. "Where's the rest of the gang?"

"Angel's hunting for seashells with Alex but I think he's really making up for lost tanning time. I think Spike and Faith were," Willow paused and cast a quick look at little girl already covered in chocolate ice cream. "I think they were making a sandcastle."

"Right. Sandcastle." Buffy fetched a bowl for herself and batted her eyelashes at Leia. "Ice cream for the enormously pregnant lady?"

"Are you sure? The midwife should be here soon."

"And this will be my last ice cream for days, yes, I'm sure." Buffy eased herself carefully onto a stool beside the little girl. "Did you have fun at the beach, Addie?"

"Yup." Another heaping spoonful of ice cream disappeared into her small mouth and the

rest of her sentence was garbled beyond recognition.

"Once you've finished your ice cream, make sure you wash up. And then you and Alex and I are going to into town and see a movie with Alex's daddy, okay?"

"Can my daddy come too, Aunt Lee?" Addie paused her eating for a second.

"Of course he can." Leia swept away the bowl before the little girl could try to lick it clean. "Will you guys have everything under control here?"

"I think so." Willow wrapped her arms around Leia and laid her head against the blonde's shoulder. "One Slayer, one witch, and a former vampire? Plus the armed forces. I think we're covered."

"It's silly to worry, I know." Leia still sounded nervous.

"Don't worry. After last month's kidnap attempt, half the movie audience will be plain clothes Marines." Buffy tried to reassure her. "And the little sprog here is hardly helpless." She beamed proudly at Addie, who had managed to scream loud enough to raise the dead and bruise her attacker quite badly before security had apprehended him. The black market price for a Slayer's child, even now that Slayers were nearly obsolete, was exorbitant.

"My mum says daddy's not supposed to call me sprog. She says I already have a bloody name."

"Adelle Davis!" Leia gave the girl a stern look.

Buffy nearly choked on her ice cream, laughing so hard that her eyes watered despite the looks from Leia and Willow, who were trying desperately not to laugh. When her throat cleared enough to speak, she shrugged, "From the mouths of babes." That didn't seem to appease them. "You should hear some of the bedtime stories Angel tells Alex. I should stake him."

"What does Xander think of that?"

"As long as Xander's one of the heroes in said bedtime stories, he's fine." Buffy grinned, slipping off the barstool to dump her bowl in the sink just as the doorbell sounded. "Speaking of Xander."

"I'll get it!" Addie bounded out of the room before the others could move.

"I don't know how Faith keeps up with her." Willow was still leaning against Leia. "She's worse than the energizer bunny."

"I should round up my son so you guys don't have to wait." Buffy checked her watch.

"I'll go," Willow offered immediately.

"Thanks but no thanks, Will. I need to stretch my legs a bit. Why don't you get the room ready?" Buffy gave Willow what she hoped was an enthusiastic smile. As ready as she was to no longer be pregnant, the actual labor part had no appeal. She reclaimed her sunhat on the way out the back door, fitting it over her hair and squinting into the bright afternoon sun. One last walk down the beach before the day got down to business. It would be awhile before she could wander around on her own again.

The sand was hot beneath her feet and the sound of the waves lapping rhythmically against the beach soothed her nerves. In all the brightness and wonder around her, the one shadow was that her sister wasn't there to hold her hand. That Dawn had never been Aunt Dawn and had never known her nephews. She paused for a moment, stroking her swollen stomach absently. Still out of range from the group on the beach but close enough to see them.

Faith and Spike were taking advantage of a few quiet moments away from their precocious daughter, walking hand in hand through the surf as though they hadn't a care in the world. Angel was crouched beside a monumental pile of sand that had probably been intended as a sandcastle but had been reduced to rubble by the five year old doing his best Tyrannosaurus Rex imitation. Moments like that made it all worthwhile even if everything hadn't turned out the way she'd planned.

Sunnydale had been replaced by new town with shiny glass and fresh paint on every building. Even the cemeteries sported new fences and repaired or replaced headstones. Most of the buildings had been too damaged from the battle to be repaired and they had settled for bulldozing the town to give it a fresh start. Xander's construction company had gotten quite a few of the lucrative contracts and he had opted to put down roots, and run a comic store, with Jane. Willow and Leia had stayed as well, finding positions on the rebuilt university campus as professor and curator of the folk art museum, respectively. The museum had conveniently come into possession of a great deal of bizarre artifacts during the renovation and was able to arrange for frequent consultations with one of Britain's foremost authorities of the mystical and weird, Rupert Giles. More than once, Buffy wondered if utter destruction had been the best thing to happen to Sunnydale.

Faith and Spike hadn't managed to stay in once place for more than six months in the last five years but they were talking about settling in Sunnydale the coming fall so that Addie could start school with Alex. At first they were on the run, making sure they kept their daughter out of the hands of whatever demons remained. Then they simply enjoyed traveling together, sending back trinkets and postcards. Addie seemed to possess the same wandering, carefree spirit as her parents.

Even the Watcher's Council had evolved, becoming an entity dedicated to the history of the Slayer and all else supernatural. They were the world's leading organization for the investigation of anything that went bump in the night or howled at the moon. Iverson had gone so far as to set up satellite branches in strategic cities around the globe, particularly those with Hellmouths. Buffy's fledging business had gotten the Sunnydale contract for a rather unnecessary amount of landscaping. It was Iverson's way of offering support now that she was no longer in active Slayer duty. Although she hadn't ruled out that he might be trying to assuage lingering guilt over Cara. Her smile faded a little. They had searched in vain for Cara's body when they'd returned to Sunnydale.

As for Angel's circle of friends, they had returned to find one of their own taken over by a creature known as Illyria. Buffy had only met the self-proclaimed God-King once before the Watcher's Council had enlisted the resources of the Devonshire Coven in controlling the wake of destruction left behind. Iverson sent out quarterly memos about her adjustment to the human world, which Angel read with a poignant combination of sadness and reverence.

Those from L.A. had lost too much and once Illyria was out of their hands, they had drifted apart. She knew that Angel had remained in contact with Gunn and Lorne after choosing to leave Los Angeles and come to Sunnydale, wondering if he and Buffy could have some sort of a future together. They could be silent together; they could stand in the cemetery and feel the same grief at the same headstones. It was a commonality that Buffy didn't have with anyone else and while it wasn't the storybook ending she had imagined so many years earlier, neither of them truly fit anywhere else.

The sound of wind through the trees caught her ears and she looked back to watch the leaves toss and twirl. She held her breath, too afraid to hope for what she wanted to see. No word of it had ever left her lips and part of her clung to the lack of explanation because it meant that she could choose the one she wanted. Her heart leapt in her chest as a thousand fluttering wings poured out of the trees, deftly navigating the breeze that carried them along. Black, yellow, blue, orange; every color imaginable came spiraling toward her in a crush of butterflies. She held out her hands, laughing as she felt the brush of feet and wings against her skin. It brought back memories of her childhood, of chasing butterflies with Dawn. If there was a world of only shrimp then there was a world of butterflies and every world had a door. Every door had a key. She wanted to believe it was Dawn's way of being with her. They were gone as quickly as they came, flying away in crazy drunken spirals on multi-colored wings.

"Mommy!" Changing from dinosaur to little boy in an instant, he bounded off of the sand pile and raced up the beach toward her. "Come see what Angel found, mommy!" He grabbed her hand and started pulling her back toward the water.

"Is it a seashell?"

"It's way cooler than that."

She raised an eyebrow at Angel when they were close enough, "And what have you two been up too?"

"Innocent fun." Angel winked.

"Right." She turned her attention back to her son as he dug into the sandcastle and unearthed a gnarled piece of driftwood about three feet long. "Ooo…what's that?"

"It's a staff. Like a wizard's staff." Alex told her authoritatively. "I buried it to hide it from the demons."

"Did you now?" She gave Angel a smile that was a little too bright. "Does it have special powers?"

"Yeah. It does…stuff." Alex waved it around for a second before dropping it back into the sand pile and reburying it.

"Buffy," Angel started.

"Why don't you help him bury it, Angel?" She ruffled Alex's dark hair and pressed a quick kiss against his head. "Then it's time to go into town with your dad." She scanned the horizon out of habit before waving to get Faith and Spike's attention. They leisurely turned back toward the house.

"Are they here?" Angel seemed to suddenly be conscious of the position of the sun in the sky. "I didn't realize we'd been out here so long."

"At least you remembered sunscreen." She tried to bend down to pick up the picnic basket she'd sent with them. Angel stopped her before she gave up, gathering up the pieces of their lunch and the supplies she'd packed.

He slipped an arm around her shoulders and smiled down at her. "It might be a wizard's staff."

"A very short wizard."

"Stranger things have happened." He nudged Alex gently with the picnic basket. "Come on, Alex. It's safe now and your dad's here to take you to a movie."

Alex lingered over the sand pile for a second before deciding everything was all right and reaching for Buffy's hand. "Can you come to the movie with us, Angel?"

"I need to stay here with your mom."

"To protect her from demons?" He looked up at her with wide brown eyes. "Are there demons, mommy?"

"Just the one. But he's a good demon now, isn't that right, Angel?" She gave him another smile that let him know he could dig his own way out.

"There aren't any demons, Alex. Your mom is perfectly safe. And when you get home, you'll have a baby brother."

Alex seemed to think about that for a moment before he nodded, "Okay." They were nearly to the house when he tugged on her dress. "Mommy? Are baby brothers demons?"


End file.
